


Dancing Through Life

by Neva_Flows



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Adult Peter Parker, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Ballet Dancer Peter Parker, Beck is a doctor, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, MJ knows what’s up, Peter Parker is a Mess, Pining Peter Parker, Quentin Beck Is A Good Guy, Slow Burn, This should be a Lifetime movie, amputee peter, unique AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2020-06-29 12:16:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19830037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neva_Flows/pseuds/Neva_Flows
Summary: Peter Parker is an aspiring ballet dancer who likes to spend his mornings gazing lovingly at his crush: Quentin Beck.He manages to befriend Beck, lands an audition to perform on stage, and has his life take a turn for the better.Then the crash happened.After losing his left leg to an emergency amputation, Peter finds himself at a loss of what to do with himself. With support from his friends and his ever-handsome doctor, he receives the push he needs to start working towards getting back onto two feet and onto the stage.During his recovery, Peter realizes that a budding romance between him and Dr. Beck might be less of a stretch than he had originally thought.AKA the AU you didn’t know you needed until now





	1. Sugar, Spice, and More Sugar!

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to write another smutty fanfic, but then I decided to cleanse my palate a bit when I thought of this AU!
> 
> Lmk how y’all like it (cuz I’m always a slut for comments)!

Gentle music wafted from a set of speakers amplifying the audio on a cracked cell phone, but all Peter could hear was the soft scuff of his feet as he danced across the room. His eyes were closed, allowing him to further immerse himself in the movements of his body. He couldn’t see, he could only feel.

Serenity.

Excitement.

Discipline.

Euphoria.

Every move, from the sweep of his leg to the twitch of his fingers, filled him with a rush of emotions. He smiled, twirling around and around and around.

He was on a stage. The audience was filled with adoring fans, all holding their collective breaths as Peter spun across the stage. The colorful lights were so bright they were nearly blinding, but Peter didn’t mind. This was where he belonged: among the smell of sweat and plywood. He felt like he could go on forever as the orchestra got louder, climbing further up a crescendo with every turn Peter performed. The music swelled, reaching its climax, when—

_Bzzzzz_

Peter nearly toppled over as the ringing of his phone snapped him out of his fantasy. He regained his balance and scrambled over to the cracked cell still plugged into the set of speakers. He hurriedly unplugged it and brought the phone to his ear.

“What’s up, MJ?” Peter asked breathlessly. He quietly wondered whether it was because he was fatigued or startled—maybe both.

“Have you been dancing? You better not have shoved all the furniture to the walls again.”

Peter looked around the room guiltily, since that was exactly what he had done.

“Uh, no! No! Why would I—I just slept in a bit and, um…” He trailed off, knowing that MJ would be giving him a disapproving stare if he could see her. “Yeah, I might have danced a little.”

MJ sighed from the other end of the line.

“Whatever, just put everything back and hurry up! I’m already on break, and that guy you have a crush on is probably gonna leave soon. It’s almost 9, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Peter glanced at the simple clock that hung on the wall, and almost dropped his phone out of shock. Without answering his best friend, he hung up and immediately got to moving the chairs and tables back to their places, finishing his speedy cleanup by throwing the fuzzy pink rug haphazardly on the hardwood floor. Not five seconds later, he almost tripped over it as he rushed out the door. Luckily, Peter was smart enough to grab his wallet and keys on his way out.

***  
Peter was about to run straight into the Avengers Cafe, but stopped himself just before reaching the glass doors. He jogged back a bit to check his reflection in the neighboring store, then tried his best to look casual as he finally opened the door.

The smell of coffee and freshly-baked pastries hit Peter as he walked in, which elicited a happy sigh from the young man. No matter how many times he visited, he would never get tired of that smell.

“Peter!”

Peter smiled as he spotted MJ waving at him from behind the counter. He walked over, laughing as his roommate reached over and punched his shoulder.

“God, took you long enough. If it weren’t for me, you would never leave that dusty old apartment!” MJ sighed sarcastically. Peter laughed again.

“You’re right. One of these days I’ll get a place just for myself, and you’ll never see me again! I’ll never have to move the furniture from the walls, and it’ll be great!”

“Yeah, like you wouldn’t just live inside a dance studio,” MJ teased, stepping away from the counter and disappearing behind the display case that held all the pastries. Peter bit back his retort as she popped back up with a small plate with a flaky chocolate croissant perched delicately on top. “That’ll be $2.99,” MJ chirped, smiling with so much enthusiasm it was scary.

“I didn’t even—Oh, God, just turn off the customer service smile and I’ll give you the money! As much as you want!” Peter exclaimed, pretending to cower away even as he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket.

MJ laughed and took the card Peter handed her, relaxing her demeanor as she did some stuff on the computer in front of her. While she was busy with the cheap system, Peter looked around the cafe.

The Avengers Cafe was, in one word, cozy. It was adorned with cushy armchairs and sofas scattered around the smallish shop. The floor was made out of a dark mahogany. Peter learned a few weeks ago that it was amazing for sock-skating. Sure, he may have hit his knee really hard after a tremendous fall, but seeing MJ rolling around, laughing hysterically, had been totally worth the pain.

The walls were a warm chocolate color, filled with paintings and newspaper clippings depicting front-page stories about heroes and celebrities. Peter hoped that he’d be on those walls some day, his smiling face front and center while headlines such as “Greatest Ballerina in NY” and “Newbie Dances Like a Pro!” explode from the pages.

But Peter’s favorite thing in the entire cafe was him:

Quentin Beck.

He had noticed Beck the moment the man had first walked in to order a simple black coffee a week or so ago. Peter was already attracted to the rippling muscles beneath Beck’s simple dress shirt, the exposed forearms, and—God—the beard, but Peter knew he was going to hopelessly fall in love with the man when he saw him walk over to the container of sugar sitting on the counter and pour what must have been four spoonfuls of the stuff into his no-longer-black coffee.

Peter loved any man that had a sweet tooth, but he especially liked attractive ones.

At the moment, Beck was sitting in his usual place in the back of the cafe, his brow furrowed in concentration as he scrolled through what Peter guessed were some serious emails or something. Sitting beside his laptop was an empty cup that used to be filled with what was presumably a very sugary beverage.

Peter continued to stare at Beck, taking in as much as he could while he had the chance. He watched as Beck’s foot tapped rhythmically on the floor while he reacted silently to a particularly concerning email. His eyes traveled to Beck’s mouth as the older man worried his lip between his teeth. Peter almost did the same, but then MJ was nudging him in the arm, trying to hand him his card and the croissant at the same time.

“Earth to Peter, come in Peter,” MJ tried, raising her eyebrows as she still got no response from her lovestruck friend. She sighed and set the plate down. “Quit ogling Dr. Handsome and take your breakfast,” she said, maneuvering the croissant into a paper bag and forcing it into Peter’s hands as he finally turned his attention back to her. “You better get going, or you’re going to be late for your actual job.”

Peter wrinkled his nose and made a noise of confusion. “Wha—Doctor—No, no, no, I wasn’t—wait, what?” He sputtered, checking the time on his phone. “Oh, shit!” He exclaimed, hurriedly stuffing his card back into his wallet and hurrying towards the doors with his chocolate croissant in tow. “See you later, MJ! Thanks for the croissant!” He called, almost crashing into the cafe’s doors as he turned to wave at his friend.

“Just get going! If you get fired, we’ll have virtually no income, because the state of this country’s economy is fucked up!” MJ replied over her shoulder, taking the plate over to the sink to wash.

And just like that, Peter Parker was off to work, unaware of the set of laughing blue eyes following him as he tripped out the door.


	2. Speed Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Peter and MJ can live off the salaries of a journalist and a barista in the Sims, they can do it in a fan-fiction too B)

On any other day, Peter would have been on the metro, already en route to his job in NYC. Normally, he would pace his mornings in such a way that he arrived at exactly the time he needed to be there. This sometimes pissed off Peter’s already-angry boss, but he was never doing anything wrong. Peter was never late, so Mr. Jameson couldn’t get on his back for it.

Peter only hoped his pristine record would remain untouched as he ran through the streets of New York, barely remembering to check his phone to make sure he was going the right way.

As he skidded around a corner into an alleyway, Peter took a moment to thank his past self for exercising outside of dancing. Without his habit of going on a jog every other day, he would already be a panting mess while he leapt over an overturned trash can.

“Come on, come on, come on,” Peter muttered, turning back onto the crowded street. He hurriedly wove through groups of people, ignoring the angry voices following in his wake. Honestly, he wanted nothing more than to turn around and apologize profusely, but he absolutely couldn’t be late. Sorry, strangers! Maybe in another life!

He had been running for a while, and had finally passed the subway station that was usually his last stop on his way to work. Okay, he could do this! Just a little farther, and he’ll be able to see—

Just as he turned another corner, Peter was stopped by Charlie, a homeless man that Peter liked to stop and talk to when he had the time.

Today was different, though. As much as he liked Charlie, Peter really couldn’t deal with him at that moment.

“Woah! What’s the rush, Peter?” Charlie exclaimed, looking Peter up and down. It was only then that Peter became conscious of his appearance.

Since he was already in a rush to leave the apartment, Peter hadn’t even changed into his work clothes. Instead of wearing something semi-professional, like a sweater over a white dress shirt, he had his old “I Survived My Trip to NYC” t-shirt tucked into yoga pants. Not to mention, he was sweating like a pig, and his hair was probably a mess.

Well, it’s not like he could do anything about it.

“Wait a minute,” Charlie drawled, scratching his chin. “Shouldn’t you be at work by now? What happened, did dance practice run late?” He wheezed a laugh, slapping Peter’s arm and gripping his bicep. “Maybe I should take up dancing, if it’s made you this strong! I remember when you were just a wee—“

“Yeah, um, I really need to go, Charlie,” Peter interrupted, anxiously tapping his foot on the ground. Holy crap, he was still wearing his flats. “I’m really sorry, I’ll talk to you after work, okay? You can have this, I won’t have time to eat it,” he explained, gently shoving the small paper bag into Charlie’s bony hands.

Charlie looked inside the bag and smiled, waving while Peter scooted around him. “See you later, Peter!”

“Bye, Charlie!” Peter called, already taking off again.

***  
“Parker!”

Peter froze as he tried—and failed—to sneak into The Daily Bugle behind one of his coworkers. Betty gave him an apologetic smile as she continued in without him, leaving him to deal with the infamous J. Jonah Jameson on his own. 

Traitor.

Peter gulped, awkwardly shuffling out of the way as a small group of people exited the elevator directly behind him.

“Oh, um, hi, Mr. Jameson,” Peter stuttered, desperately trying to act like nothing was wrong. “Fancy seeing you here… by the elevators… not in your office…” He tried to crack a smile, but his boss’s expression was deadpan. “Wow, it’s almost like you were waiting for me or something. Gosh, I like you a lot, Mr. Jameson, but I already gave my heart aw—“

“My office, Parker. _Now,”_ Mr. Jameson interrupted, turning on his heel and marching towards the back. Peter rubbed his neck sheepishly, following close behind.

The moment Peter stepped into Mr. Jameson’s office, he was barraged by a flurry of questions.

“What the hell are you wearing? In all the years I’ve worked here, I’ve never felt so insulted by a pair of goddamn _yoga pants!”_

“I was—“

“Why are you suddenly twenty minutes late, after being so infuriatingly on-time since the first day of your employment?”

“Funny story—“

“Are you gonna think of some bullshit excuse, or are you going to admit that dance practice ran late?”

“Actually, Charlie said the same—“

“Stop being smart with me, Parker!” Mr. Jameson slammed his fist on the large oak desk, causing a few pens to start rolling off of it. Peter’s eyes widened. Mr. Jameson was red in the face, grinding his unlit cigarette between his teeth like some feral animal. Peter was almost expecting to see foam on his boss’s lips.

Mr. Jameson stalked over to Peter, pulling the younger man towards him aggressively. They were nose-to-nose, but he was staring Peter down with unshakeable intensity. Peter almost felt like a matador facing a glaring bull, only he wasn’t allowed to dodge out of the way.

“Go home, put on something _respectable,_ and bring your work with you this time. I know damn well you didn’t think to bring anything but your lousy self, dressing like that,” Mr. Jameson barked, shoving Peter towards the door. Peter almost replied with “sir, yes, sir!” but held his tongue. He really needed to take advantage of what little mercy Mr. Jameson was allowing him, since he really did forget to grab the flash drive that held every article, photo, and WIP in his portfolio.

“Right away, sir. Will do. Thank you,” Peter sputtered, getting out of there as fast as he could. He hurried over to the elevator and pressed the button, glancing over his shoulder to see that, yes, Mr. Jameson was still watching him like a hawk. 

As soon as Peter stepped into the elevator and the doors had closed behind him, he let out a long sigh of relief. He honestly thought Mr. Jameson might kill him, or worse: fire him.

Peter doubted that Mr. Jameson would have been that merciful to anyone else, though. After all, Peter was a pretty good employee, if he did say so himself. With all his experience with documenting stories ranging from soft and heart-warming to devastatingly graphic, there was virtually nothing the young journalist couldn’t deal with.

The elevator came to a stop as it reached the ground floor, and Peter decided to get back to his apartment as quickly as possible. Ugh, that would mean another speed-run. Hopefully he could get another croissant—or maybe just a cup of water—from MJ on the way back.

But as Peter prepared to run, the doors slid open to reveal someone blocking his way. And as Peter looked up at the man’s face, taking in those oh-so-familiar features, he realized that he was face-to-face with the last person who he wanted to have see him in his goddamn pajamas.

Quentin Beck.


	3. Sandalwood, Disinfectant, and a Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is longer than the others, mostly because I had a lot of ideas, but only so much exposition can fit in an elevator ride. Lmk how y’all like it! (Cuz, as always, I’m a slut for comments)

Peter could practically feel his heart in his throat. Quentin Beck, the man who he barely knew, yet had been pining after for weeks, was right in front of him, giving him a quizzical look as he stood rooted to his spot inside the elevator. Quentin flashed a half-smile and shuffled in next to Peter just before the doors closed.

It was quiet for a few moments as Quentin pressed a button and the elevator began to move again. Peter watched him out of the corner of his eye, trying to be discreet as he drank in as much of the older man as he could. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t help quietly inhaling the scent of Quentin’s cologne.

It smelled like sandalwood.

But there was also the distinct smell of disinfectant.

Huh.

“So,” the low, almost hesitant sound of Quentin’s voice snapped Peter out of whatever smell-induced daze he was in. When he turned to look at Quentin questioningly, he found himself being sucked into the other man’s deep blue gaze.

God, he was hopeless.

“I think I saw you somewhere else this morning, but I can’t quite put my finger on it,” Quentin said. Well, that was certainly one way to start a conversation.

“I, um, you,” Peter stuttered, “you must have the wrong person. I went straight from home to work today. No stops. Nothing.”

Quentin scratched at his beard, eyeing Peter warily. “No, no, there’s no way I saw two people dressed in exactly the same way, unless you’re part of some group?” Peter could feel his face growing hot, and he opened his mouth to try to deny Quentin’s claims, but was interrupted. 

“Oh, I think I know what it was!” Quentin exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “You were at the Avengers Cafe this morning, weren’t you? I remember, because you were talking to that barista!” He smiled tauntingly, and Peter couldn’t tell whether the blood that ran to his face was because he felt indignant, or if it was _something else._ “Straight to work, huh?”

“I was—“ Peter’s mouth went dry as Quentin raised an eyebrow at him expectantly. “I was… dancing… in my apartment and lost track of time,” he admitted, forcing himself to stop staring into those beautiful blue eyes. Instead, he watched as the number at the top of the elevator slowly climbed upwards.

“Dancing?” Quentin looked Peter up and down. “Let me guess… ballet?”

Peter shot Quentin a pointed look.

“Well, why are you here, then? At The Daily Bugle, I mean. Not in the elevator.”

“You’d be surprised how hard it is to find a stable job for the fine arts in New York,” Peter said, adding just a touch of sarcasm to his reply. He looked back over at Quentin, smiling despite his overwhelming nerves. The smell of sandalwood and disinfectant wafted towards him. Peter wanted to know what it was about the man before him that made him smell and look so darn clean all the time. “And what about you? Why are you at The Bugle?”

Quentin chuckled, and God, if it wasn’t the most gorgeous sound Peter had heard in his entire life, Fur Elise be damned.

“I’ve been meaning to come. I got an email a while back asking for an interview… for whatever reason. I figured it would be a nice change of pace, but the problem was finding time in my schedule to have the meeting.” Quentin shrugged, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his slacks. “I just hope I’m not old news.”

Peter bit his lip. He was pretty damn sure he knew why Quentin, of all the random people milling about New York, was chosen to be interviewed by what was basically a tabloid.

It had less to do with Quentin’s career, and more to do with however many people got the luxury to see what Quentin was hiding under that tight-fitting shirt.

“Really?” Peter asked, trying very hard not to let his feelings show. “What do you do for a living?”

“Oh, I didn’t realize the interview would be happening right now,” Quentin laughed. It wasn’t a funny joke, but it was so genuine that Peter couldn’t help laughing right along. “I’m a doctor: Doctor Quentin Beck. Right now I’m working in critical care, but I’m hoping to eventually find someplace to ‘retire’ to just a generic family doctor. Things are so hectic for me at the hospital, I feel like my hair’ll be grey by the time I’m forty.”

“Then how old are you now?”

“Thirty-six.”

“Wait, really?” Peter’s eyes roamed every inch of Quentin’s kind face. Sure, he wasn’t great at guessing other people’s ages, but he assumed Quentin was, like, thirty-two at _most._ “You, uh…” Quentin grinned, clearly amused by the transparent look of shy appreciation Peter was giving him. “You look good.”

“Thanks.”

The two stood there in a comfortable silence, and for a few moments, Peter completely forgot what he was so worried about not ten minutes ago.

That is, until the elevator dinged, and Peter could feel horror flooding his veins as he looked at the number above the door.

He just left that floor.

_Mr. Jameson_ was on that floor.

Mr. Jameson would _kill him_ if he saw that Peter was still there.

“Oh, shi— I’m sorry, I need to— can you—“ Peter cut himself off as the doors began to slide open. Panicking, he grabbed Quentin by the front of his shirt, and forced the older man to pin him against the elevator wall, effectively keeping him out of the sight of anyone who might peek inside.

Quentin was using his arms to brace himself against the wall, his eyes comically wide as he tried to process what had just happened. “What are you—“

_“Shh!”_ Peter hurriedly put a finger to his lips, his other hand still gripping Quentin’s shirt like a lifeline.

They stayed there in silence, waiting for the doors to close again. Peter’s blush blossomed into a deep red as he heard a few whoops and wolf-whistles coming from the office. God, if they realized that it was him that was supposedly making out with a hunk in the elevator, he’d never be able to live it down. Quentin gave him a look that suggested he wasn’t sure whether to be concerned or amused.

“Do you mind if I..?” Quentin gave Peter a pointed look, speaking so quietly Peter had to strain his ears to hear. “It would look suspicious if we stay still.”

As he spoke, Quentin moved one of his hands down the wall. Gingerly, he cupped Peter’s face and leaned closer.

Peter could have been thinking about how long it was taking for the damn door to close, or maybe about how the hell Quentin knew what to do in that particular situation, or even about the possibility of someone stepping into the elevator despite his and Quentin’s charade.

But all he could do was stare helplessly into Quentin’s eyes. He knew Quentin was only playing along with him, but Peter couldn’t help but hope that the calloused thumb stroking his cheek wasn’t part of an act.

He wanted to kiss Quentin so bad; wanted to add a bit of himself into the sandalwood and disinfectant that would undoubtedly plague his thoughts for eternity.

Distantly, Peter could hear the sound of heavy, automated doors sliding closed. As soon as they did, Quentin stepped back. Peter let his hands fall to his sides as the absence of contact shocked him back to reality.

“Sorry,” Quentin apologized, looking sheepish. “You looked uncomfortable, but at least you successfully did… whatever it was you were trying to do. I assume. What was all that about, anyway?” Peter gulped.

“Well, I was kind of supposed to go home to change into something more…” Peter looked down at himself, gesturing at his wrinkled sleep-shirt. “...professional. So I didn’t really want my boss seeing me.” He glanced up at Quentin, who nodded in understanding.

“That seems reasonable, but, um…” he scratched his chin, squinting his eyes in concentration. “Then why didn’t you get off the elevator while I was getting on?”

Peter’s eyes widened.

Crap.

How was he supposed to tell Quentin that he was too busy checking him out to remember to leave the elevator?

“I, uh…” The friendly curiosity on Quentin’s face threw Peter for several loops, and then another one for extra measure. “I just… I was…”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Think of something, Peter! Say anything! _Anything!_

“I just… zoned out. I just figured I could wait for you to leave so you wouldn’t think it was weird of me to press the button for the floor I was just on, I guess?” He glanced at Quentin nervously, hardly thinking as more words tumbled out of his mouth. “It sounds really stupid, I know, I just kind of panicked and probably thought about it a little too hard, but since I see you more often than other people—not that I’m, like, looking at you or anything. I just see you at the cafe—it would just be bad for you to think… um… I… uh... yeah,” he finished lamely.

Quentin was staring at him, probably wondering why he was still talking to Peter after that dumb and lengthy excuse. He probably regretted every second he spent telling Peter more about himself, and vice versa. God, Peter felt like such an idiot! Quentin was probably thinking the same thing.

But then he started to laugh.

Peter blinked, wondering if he was hallucinating.

Nope. That laugh, warm and charming, was absolutely coming from Quentin.

“I, um… what did I do?” Peter asked helplessly.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t be laughing,” Quentin gasped, contradicting himself by laughing harder. “I-I’m sorry, I just—“ it took him a few moments, but he was finally able to collect himself. “Sorry, I just…” He sighed, stuffing his hands back into his pockets. “I know someone else like you, who overthinks things a lot. Thing is, she’s only in third grade. It makes me sad to see her second-guess everything she does, but...” he smiled at the memory. “She’s just so earnest, I can’t help thinking about how adorable she is.”

Peter’s heart sunk. Of course. Quentin was a grown, attractive man with a promising career and wonderful personality. Of course he would have a daughter—a _family._ Why did he ever entertain the thought that, just maybe, _he_ could be Quentin’s family? Sure, it was probably just a petty little crush, but the unspoken rejection still hurt like hell.

Quentin continued, oblivious to Peter’s inner turmoil. “When I met her, she was very small and scared—“ Maybe he adopted her or something? ”—She was the only survivor of a collision involving a drunk driver. Her parents and little brother were in that car with her.” Oh no. He cleared his throat, trying to mask the sadness that suddenly clouded his eyes. “We, uh… we didn’t get to them in time.”

Peter couldn’t bring himself to feel even a little heartened at the fact that Quentin did not actually have a family… that Peter knew of. His heart hurt for the girl, but also for Quentin. Seeing the troubled look on the older man’s face was telling of how hard his job really was.

“I’m…” Sorry? Sorry for what? Peter had nothing to do with the crash. “Sorry” wouldn’t make Quentin’s or the unnamed little girl’s lives any better. Peter tried to think of something that would mean something, something that would _help._

The elevator was quiet, save for the muted chatter of the office on the other side of the doors. The sudden change in atmosphere sobered up whatever giddiness was left in Peter from his brief closeness with Quentin.

“I… appreciate the work you do. Really,” he said softly. “You may not have been able to save the whole family, but you saved that little girl. You said she overthinks things like me, right? Well, I mean, that can be a pain, believe me, but her mind is still working.” He looked at his feet, beginning to shift his weight from side to side in order to work out some of the anxious energy inside him. “I guess what I’m trying to say is… she’s okay. She’ll continue to be okay, as long as someone is there for her… to watch her grow, I guess. Um… I think what I’m really, _actually_ trying to say is: you can’t save everyone, but the people that you do save will never let you forget it?” He looked up nervously, then added, “in a good way, I mean! Like, they’ll never forget the service you did them, and that’s the greatest… gift… of all..?”

Quentin only stared.

“Um, did that make any sense? It made sense in my head—“

“Thank you. Really,” Quentin interrupted, smiling at Peter so brightly, he put the Sun to shame. Honestly, Peter could die right then and there, and he’d be happy.

“Oh! Um, you’re welcome, Dr. Beck. I…” Peter trailed off, the brief, lovestruck look on his face fading into neutrality as he remembered what he still had to do. But before that… “Dr. Beck?”

“Hm?”

“I don’t think the interview with The Bugle is worth it,” Peter said carefully. “You’re a very nice man, and you never know what kinds of stuff a gossip-hungry newspaper will say about you. Whatever it could be, even if it’s untrue, it could possibly damage your career! I’ve only known you for a few minutes, Dr. Beck, but I absolutely cannot let that happen to you.”

Peter marched over to the panel of buttons and selected the ground floor. Almost immediately, the elevator began to move again. Peter turned to look back at Quentin.

Quentin’s eyes were wide. He looked speechless, yet an impressed smile tugged at his lips. “Alright,” he conceded. “I trust you.”

Peter’s heart nearly soared, but the elevator was getting closer and closer to their destination, and he knew he was going to have to run.

“I’m gonna run as soon as those doors open,” he explained quickly, keeping his eyes on the number above the elevator doors. “I’m already going to be late enough as I am, but I really don’t want Mr. Jameson getting even angrier than he already is, so… I guess this is goodbye… for now?” He smiled hopefully, glancing at Quentin.

Quentin smiled right back. “Goodbye… for now,” he echoed. The elevator chimed and came to a stop on the ground floor.

“Wait,” Quentin added, almost reaching out to hold Peter back. “I never caught your name.”

Peter smiled even more, blissfully aware of how often he heard that line in all the cheesy romance movies he’d watch with MJ. “Peter,” he replied simply, just as the doors slid open.

And off he went.


	4. A Friendly Intervention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone needs a friends like MJ,,, I love her <3

“I’m such an idiot,” Peter groaned, rolling over on the bed as MJ looked on. “First, Mr. Jameson yelled at me. Then, I made an absolute fool of myself in front of my crush! Then, when I actually changed and came back to work, Mr. Jameson yelled at me _again!”_ He sighed dramatically as MJ shifted to sit with her legs crossed, allowing Peter to rest his head on her thigh. “And I could hardly get any work done, because I was too afraid of someone asking me if _I_ was the one making out with Dr. Beck in the elevator, and luckily no one did, but I kind of wish someone had, so I wouldn’t have to sit there for _six hours_ worrying about it, and—“

“I’m gonna stop you right there, Peter,” MJ interrupted, stroking her friend’s hair soothingly. “You need to calm down and think about it this way: everyone who’s ever met you knows that you’re a walking disaster.” Peter furrowed his brows in a look of indignation, but didn’t bother trying to correct MJ. She was right, after all. “And from what I can tell, and from what you’ve told me, Dr. Handsome seems like an understanding man.”

“Stop calling him that.”

“So, since Dr. Handsome is so understanding,” MJ continued, acting as if she hadn’t heard Peter. “He would just know that you can’t help being a bisexual mess. He’s also probably no fool, since he’s a doctor, and went to college and everything. He probably knows the kind of effect he has on people, with his sharp, rugged features.”

“You can stop now,” Peter groaned, covering his face with his hands.

“In fact, he could probably see your imagination running wild while he had you pinned to the wall. Face it, Peter, you’ve got a terrible poker face.”

Peter rolled away from MJ, nearly falling off the bed in the process. “Just shoot me,” he muttered, laying in his stomach with his face buried in the old, blue blanket he had bought at a thrift store a few years back. “I’fe gone and falked fo him, foo. Whaf fo I fo if he fies fo fay hi fomorrow or fomefhing?” He whines, his voice muffled by the soft polyester. 

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” MJ asked, flopping down next to Peter. “In fact, _you_ should say hi to _him_ tomorrow, just for some practice.”

“Pafice for whaf?”

“Well, you can’t rely on Dr. Handsome to initiate every conversation you have even after you get married.”

At that comment, Peter shot up to give MJ an incredulous look.

“I—we—he wouldn’t—I’m just—“ He stuttered, his face growing more and more red. MJ cackled, rolling onto her side to shield herself as Peter smacked her with his pillow angrily. “Stop… giving me hope!” Peter huffed, smacking MJ again for extra measure. “It’s just a silly crush. Nothing’s ever going to come of it,” he sighed, clutching his pillow and flopping back onto the bed.

“Yeah, well, even if it really is a crush, and you’re going to get over him eventually,” MJ began, propping herself up by her elbows. “I hope it ends painlessly.” Her tone changed, becoming more sincere. “You’re in deep right now, Peter. I’m worried about you, especially since you’re so bad at expressing your feelings.”

“Hey!”

“I’m not wrong.”

Peter shrugged as he pushed himself up into a kneeling position. “I just—“ he hopped off the bed and began to pace around the cramped bedroom, mindlessly stepping around trinkets and clothes that were scattered on the floor. “He’s just so… good, y’know? Not only is he, well, the most attractive man I’ve ever seen—“

“Amen.”

“—but he also has a busy, respectable job. He saves lives, MJ! Today, he told me about a little girl he helped save. I don’t know if they’re still in contact—Dr. Beck made it _seem_ like they were, which is _adorable_ —but the point is that he genuinely cares for people! I’m half-expecting him to tell me he adopted a litter of abandoned puppies he found on the side of the road once I talk to him tomorrow—“

“So you are planning on talking to him tomorrow,” MJ pointed out, now back in a sitting position on the bed.

“Yes, well, no—maybe!” Peter stopped by the door, grabbing the doorframe to steady himself as he began to mindlessly swing his leg back and forth. It certainly wasn’t dancing, but the familiar kicking motion allowed him to feel a little more at ease as he rambled on.

“I might try to talk to him tomorrow, if I see him at the cafe. But what if he doesn’t want to talk? What if he only put up with me for a little bit in the elevator, knowing that I would be too shy to say hello the next day? You said it yourself, MJ, he can _definitely_ tell that I’m a walking disaster. And what if he doesn’t even remember me? What’ll I do then? I’ll look like even more of an idiot if I try to approach him, and he doesn’t even recognize me!”

“Peter—“

“Or worse, I’ll just become some funny anecdote for him to go home and tell his family about! They’re probably all sitting around, laughing about—“

_”Peter!”_

Peter stopped kicking his leg. In fact, he went completely still as he looked over at MJ.

“Jesus,” she muttered. “We’ve already talked about your self-confidence issues. What you need to do right now is _calm down.”_ She patted a spot on the bed beside her, and Peter shuffled across the room to obey the silent command. As he plopped down, he felt MJ put an arm around him.

“Hey, I know it’s hard to stop yourself from jumping to conclusions all the time. You’re so paranoid that everyone is out to get you. Though, that might be my fault, since I make you watch all those true crime documentaries.” Peter huffed out a laugh, resting his head on MJ’s shoulder. She adjusted her arm, bringing up her hand to absentmindedly mess with Peter’s fluffy brown hair.

“I know,” Peter admitted. “I’m just so worried about everything all the time, I guess, especially when it comes to _Dr. Handsome._ I’ve had crushes before, but I’ve never actually acted on any of them before. This is the most progress I’ve made since…” he paused, trying to search his memory for any time that he might have put in effort to get to know the people he found attractive. “...since forever, I guess.”

“Do you want some advice?” MJ asked. Peter nodded wordlessly. He needed all the good advice he could get, and MJ was full of it. “This might be kind of weird, coming from someone who… isn’t really into the whole romance thing, but, if you really like this guy, then go for it. I know you, Peter, and I would never ask you to put yourself out there in a way that would make you uncomfortable.”

She shifted so she could see Peter’s face, frowning at his miserable demeanor.

“But, because I know you so well, I know that you’ll regret it if you let this one get away.”

Peter sniffed, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his fuzzy blue sweater. He hadn’t even realized he was crying until then.

“Thanks, MJ.”

“Hey, that’s what friends are for,” MJ gave Peter one of her rare smiles. “Now, go change into something more comfortable while I pull up the next episode of Grisly, Gory True Stories.” She pushed Peter to his feet, shooing him away while she searched for her laptop. He groaned in fake annoyance, but didn’t argue.

Peter rummaged through their small, shared closet, quick to find an old graphic t-shirt and his pajama pants. He paused on his way to the door, turning on his heel to look at MJ again.

“For real, though… thanks. You’re a good friend,” he said.

“Hurry up, or I’ll start it without you!” MJ replied, exasperated. Peter laughed and left the room in a hurry, MJ’s pillow chasing him out the door.


	5. A Taste of Sugar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry! I was planning on getting this chapter out a few days ago, but I’ve just been so busy this weekend. I tried to write a little more than usual to make up for it, though! Lmk how y’all like it (cuz, as always, I’m a slut for comments)

“Come on, let’s go!” MJ called, glaring at Peter impatiently from her spot by the door. Peter was running around the apartment, trying to do too many things at once. His toothbrush dangled precariously out of his mouth as he stuffed his laptop, notebook, and other such things in his satchel. He dropped the bag on the floor, hurrying to the bathroom to rinse and spit. When he came back out, he was struggling with his shirt.

“Do you think Dr. Beck prefers blue or yellow?” He asked desperately, flinging the shirt across the room in favor of two different colored sweaters that were draped over an armchair. “I want to look good for him, but I don’t want to look like I’m _trying_ to look good for him, y’know?”

MJ shrugged. “You wore blue yesterday,” she pointed out.

“But he didn’t see—screw it, okay…” Peter slipped on the yellow sweater, scooping up his bag while simultaneously putting on his shoes. His ability to multitask might have been impressive, if he hadn’t made such a mess of the sitting room. “Let’s just go,” he sighed, heading towards the door.

“Do you have your flash drive this time?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” Peter huffed, pulling the compact device out of his bag to prove it. He let it dangle from his fingers just long enough to let MJ get a look, before he dropped it back into a random pocket. “Now come on, let’s get this over with.”

“I love today’s mindset. It’s super optimistic,” MJ commented sarcastically, opening the door for Peter, and locking it once they were both outside. She absentmindedly thumbed through her keys as she started down the hall, Peter hot on her heels. 

“God, I wish,” Peter sighed. “Well, whatever happens, I just hope I don’t make a fool of myself.”

***  
“Can you clean the tables real quick while I get everything ready in the back? Ned closed yesterday, and he tends to leave whatever messes the customers leave to us,” MJ explained, unlocking the doors to the Avengers Cafe and turning on the lights.

“You do realize that I still don’t work here, right?” Peter laughed. “I should be getting paid, with all the help I’ve been giving you.”

“Yeah, right,” MJ walked behind the counter, tossing a cleaning rag at Peter’s face playfully. “Mr. Harrington lets you have free coffee. That’s enough.”

Peter shrugged. “You got me there.”

MJ muttered something along the lines of, “He’s late again,” but Peter hardly heard her. He got to cleaning off the tables, which mostly just had crumbs. Peter decided he would just wipe them off, and get the broom later. With the repetitive action, he felt himself getting into a sort of a rhythm.

Swipe, swipe, move, repeat.

With a small hum, Peter decided to make the task more fun. As he moved to the next table, he did a little turn. MJ made a noise of mock protest, which only spurred him on.

Swipe, swipe, twirl, repeat.

Peter laughed as he finished with the tables, spinning across the room towards MJ. He caught himself on the counter, feeling only a little dizzy from the activity. “Broom, please!” He said, swapping out the rag for the plain broom and dustpan MJ carefully handed him from over the counter. “Thank you.” He bowed dramatically, earning a small laugh from MJ.

Even without any music to go off of, Peter found that it was incredibly easy to keep in rhythm as he danced about, sweeping up crumbs and trash. He twirled around for the most part, sometimes adding a sweep of the leg, or a graceful bending at the knees. With every step he took, another worry melted away. Soon enough, it was just him and the hardwood floor.

And honestly? That was all he really needed to be happy.

Without even realizing it, he began to hum. At that point, he was done sweeping. He set the dustpan down on a chair, and imagined that the broom was just another performer, dancing the waltz with him.

He could imagine the stranger’s neat, brown hair; their strong arms as they wrapped around Peter’s waist; and their kind, blue eyes that gazed at him as if he was the most precious person in the world. Peter wanted to be enveloped in that feeling, to be the captive of a loving embrace. 

MJ, who seemed to notice that Peter was in fantasyland again, cleared her throat as her friend’s steps slowed to a halt. Peter was still staring, starry-eyed, at the broom. “Peter,” she tried. Nothing. “Hello? Pet—“

The bell by the doors twinkled, indicating a new arrival.

“Am I, uh… interrupting something?”

Peter was shocked out of his fantasy by the sound of the familiar voice. The broom clattered to the ground as he whipped around to look at Quentin.

“I, um, this is—I wasn’t—you—“ Peter’s voice cracked. His face was practically on fire as he gaped at Quentin. They stood there for a few moments, just staring at each other, before Peter sheepishly stooped to collect the broom and dustpan. “I’m just gonna… deal with these… in the back…” he sputtered, hurrying into the back room.

Distantly, he could hear MJ and Quentin have a brief exchange. He sighed, emptying out the dustpan into the trash can. Maybe he just wasn’t meant to have a non-embarrassing encounter with Quentin… he planned on talking to him a bit today, but now, he wasn’t sure he had the confidence.

“Oh, hey, Pete!”

Peter turned to see someone entering through the back door. He squinted against the sunlight, blind to the features of the newcomer, though he already knew who it was.

“Hey, Brad.”

Brad smiled as the door swung closed behind him. “If you’re here, then MJ must be here, too, right?”

Peter nodded, watching as Brad brushed past him to talk to MJ. Brad was only a few years younger than MJ, and he had the biggest crush on her. Peter wasn’t a big fan of Brad, but he still felt bad seeing him get shot down so many times. He supposed he and Brad were similar in the way that they never had a chance with the person they were crushing on.

Sorry, Brad.

Feeling a little better after watching his fellow (literal) hopeless romantic get shut down for the fifth time that week, Peter decided he would try to approach Quentin again. Hopefully, he’d be able to find a good explanation for his antics with the broom. He took a deep breath and tried to look confident as he followed Brad out.

“Welcome back,” MJ snickered, pointedly ignoring Brad, who was trying to get her attention over by the display of pastries. “Here, I thought I should help you out a bit.” She nudged Peter, pointing at a mug sitting by the coffeemaker. “Good luck.”

Peter watched, confused, as MJ turned to acknowledge Brad. It took him a few seconds to completely process what MJ had meant.

He looked at the mug.

He looked at Quentin.

Oh.

_Oh, no._

“I can’t give it to him myself!” Peter hissed, trying to stay quiet in case Quentin heard. “First of all, I’m not a waiter. Second of all, _what if something goes wrong?”_

“You really need to calm down,” MJ sighed, not even bothering to look over her shoulder at her friend. “Besides, that’s your best bet. If you just try to approach him without an offering or something, you’re gonna chicken out.”

Peter opened his mouth to argue, but thought better of it. He ran a hand through his hair, mentally preparing himself for the inevitable disaster that he was about to create. “Why do you always have to be right?” He groaned, snatching up the mug and circling around to the other side of the counter. MJ gave him a thumbs up from her place behind the pastry display.

Before he could find it in himself to, as MJ put it, chicken out, Peter grabbed the sugar dispenser and forced himself to walk towards Quentin.

In the time that Peter had spent wallowing in the back and psyching himself up, Quentin had found himself a small table by the window, and had gotten out his laptop per usual. As Peter approached, he noticed that Quentin was muttering something to himself while furiously typing away on his keyboard.

“I, uh…” Peter forgot what he was going to say once Quentin’s blue eyes met with his. “This is yours,” he announced sheepishly, placing the mug and dispenser onto the table while thanking whatever gods were up there that he didn’t spill anything.

“Thank you,” Quentin said, a look of amusement and recognition replacing the frustration that was so clearly written on his face not five seconds prior. “I didn’t realize that the Avengers Cafe suddenly had waitstaff.”

“What? Oh, no, I’m just, uh… I’m…” It was then that Peter realized he hadn’t thought of a reason as to why he was the one delivering Quentin’s coffee. “Um, MJ told me to,” he confessed. Luckily, Quentin only raised an eyebrow, but didn’t question it. 

“Is MJ the barista girl you’re always talking to?”

“Yeah, we’ve known each other since high school,” Peter let out a breathy chuckle. “It took a while, but she warmed up to me eventually. It was really awkward when we first started to hang out.”

“I can only imagine.” Quentin grinned, causing Peter’s stomach to do a flip. How could someone be so gosh darn attractive? “Do you want to sit down? There’s something I need your help with.” Peter obliged, watching quietly as Quentin stirred some sugar into his coffee. 

“So, you’re an attractive kid.”

Peter nearly had a heart attack, he was so surprised. 

“I’m—that is—thank you? Um…” He shifted around in his seat, trying—and failing—to look nonchalant. “Wha—What are—What makes you say that?” He put his elbow on the table, hoping that, by resting his chin on his fist, he somehow looked more relaxed than he felt.

Quentin laughed, thoroughly amused by Peter’s panic. “You’re welcome. Anyway—“ He swiveled his laptop around so Peter could see the screen. Quentin’s email was open, and he had a document open to the side. “—there’s this teacher of May’s who I think has gotten a bit too… comfortable with me. I want to keep our interactions professional, but it’s hard to find a way to let her down gently.”

“May?”

There was a pause as both men tried to remember how much they knew about the other, and how much the other knew about them.

“Oh! Sorry, sorry,” Quentin pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a moment. Peter panicked for a moment, wondering if Quentin was somehow disappointed in him. “I forgot. It’s a long story, but May is the girl I told you about yesterday. The one in the crash.”

Comprehension dawned on Peter, and he nodded vigorously to show Quentin that he understood.

“Right, that girl, got it.”

Quentin smiled, moving his hand to rest on the table. “Yeah. Like I said, it’s a long story, but I’ve been acting as her foster parent until she’s officially in the, um…” He strummed his fingers on the table lightly, apprehension darkening his gaze for the briefest of moments. “Until she’s in the system.”

Peter sat up a little straighter, letting his hand fall into his lap. He tried to think of something to say, but hardly had the chance. Quentin continued talking as if that moment of vulnerability never happened.

“As I was saying, you’re a handsome guy.” Quentin grinned as Peter’s face heated up. “But you’re also honest, and kind.” Peter sputtered out a thank you, thoroughly confused as to where these compliments were coming from. “That being said, there’s probably a girl or two you’ve had to turn down. So, how would you turn down this one?”

Peter stared at Quentin, willing his brain to catch up with the conversation.

Quentin thought he was kind.

Quentin thought he was _handsome._

If it weren’t for the fact that Quentin had asked him a question, Peter would have already melted onto the floor.

“I, uh, give me a second.” Peter’s gaze darted from Quentin’s face to the computer screen. He took a moment to prepare himself before reading the email Quentin had open.

_Dear Mr. Beck,_

Peter made a face. Quentin was a doctor.

_I couldn’t help noticing the lack of a mother figure in May’s life since she’s begun attending my classes. As the widowed mother of several rowdy boys myself, I know how important it is to have a complete family unit, or they might turn to something else to fill that parental gap. That tends to happen._

Peter scoffed. Now that was just plain rude. He doesn’t have a “complete family unit,” and he’s doing just fine. Quentin chuckled quietly, causing Peter’s cheeks reddened in response.

_If you’re interested in filling that gap, let me know ;)_

_Sincerely,  
Jennifer Teach, Teacher at UWU Elementary_

“That’s, um...” Peter glanced at Quentin, gently biting his tongue as a reminder to reel back his obvious distaste for the teacher. “She’s definitely not hiding her intentions.”

“So?” Quentin grinned, causing Peter to wonder if he was unknowingly doing something amusing. “What’s the verdict?”

“Well, since she came on so strongly, I guess the best course of action is to match with her intensity? You have to be firm, but just enough to get your point across. That’s just what I think, though!”

Quentin hummed, eyeing Peter thoughtfully as he turned the laptop back towards himself. “I can do that,” he said, focusing his attention on the screen as he typed away. Peter wrung his hands together under the table, using the opportunity to look around the cafe again.

A few more people had trickled in, and were either talking quietly or keeping to whatever device or book they brought with them.

Peter caught MJ’s eye from across the room, resulting in her raising her eyebrows suggestively. Thoroughly embarrassed by the small gesture, Peter whipped back around to face Quentin.

“Hopefully, that does the trick,” Quentin commented, shutting his laptop with a conclusive _snap._ “Thank you for the help, Peter.”

Oh, God, Peter didn’t even realize how much he loved his name until he heard Quentin say it. “N-no problem!” He squeaked, moving to stand. “I should get going soon. Thanks for putting up with me—“

Quentin reached out and placed his hand over Peter’s in order to stop him.

It certainly did the trick.

“One more thing, before you go,” He smiled, and Peter had a sneaking suspicion that the whole email problem was just a pretense. The thought gave Peter an odd mix of butterflies and apprehension.

“Yeah?” Even to Peter, his voice sounded unnecessarily hopeful. What was he getting so worked up for, anyway? It wasn’t like Quentin was about to propose to him or anything, especially in a cafe at 9 AM. 

“Sit back down.” Peter did as he was told, silently lamenting the loss of Quentin’s hand on his as he slid back into his seat. “I want you to interview me.”

There was a pause.

“I’m sorry?”

“Interview me, Peter.”

There was a certain power behind those words, a gentle command. When Peter looked into Quentin’s eyes, he saw a kind of giddiness behind them. Somehow, Quentin was different from yesterday. He was pushier, a bit more playful.

Peter didn’t hate it one bit.

God, he was such a sucker, but there was no way he could bring himself to say no.

“I’ll… see what I can do,” he conceded. “I’d have to run it by Mr. Jameson, and probably have a talk with whoever it was that had originally called you in, but I think we can make it work.” At the sight of Quentin’s grinning face, Peter’s tentative smile spread. “Why do you still want to be interviewed, anyway? I thought I told you how… scandalous the Bugle is.”

“If there’s something I can utilize to make my life a little more fun—“ Quentin twirled a pen around his fingers, seemingly pulling it out of nowhere. He flipped over the receipt for the coffee and wrote something down real quick. “—I’ll take it. Besides, I trust you.” He clicked the pen conclusively, and slid the receipt over towards Peter. “That’s my number. Feel free to call me whenever.”

Peter watched, dumbfounded, as Quentin collected his things and left with a friendly smile. Once he had left, Peter dared to look at the slightly crumpled receipt. Quentin’s handwriting was quick and messy, but still legible.

“Pfft, doctors,” he muttered, all the affection he was trying hard not to show in Quentin’s presence oozing out. It was then that he realized Quentin had left his coffee untouched, save for the added sugar.

Tentatively, Peter reached out and pulled the mug towards him. The coffee was probably cold by now, but he didn’t want to put it to waste.

He took a sip, and laughed quietly.

It was sweet. 


	6. Exit Stage Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY THIS CHAPTER TOOK SO LONG TO GET OUT! I had another project that required my immediate attention, and all that jazz, but don’t worry, I finished it!
> 
> I don’t want to apologize in every new chapter, so just rest assured that I will absolutely see this story to its completion, it’s just that there’s no telling how often I’ll have a new chapter out now that sch**l is starting up for me again.
> 
> I rushed through the editing for this chapter, so let me know what you think! (as always, I’m a slut for comments!)

Peter grimaced, silently hoping Mr. Jameson would just yell at him already. His boss was slumped over his desk, his head in his hands, barely acknowledging both Peter and Betty. The pair sat stiffly in their seats, quiet dread emanating off their persons. Peter glanced over at Betty, who seemed to be feeling quite peeved, despite her fear.

_What had Peter gotten himself into?_

“So, let me get this right…” Mr. Jameson began, snapping Peter to attention. “You scheduled an interview with some random doctor, without consulting me first, with no plan…” he raised his head, allowing Peter and Betty to see just how red his face was. “And then he suddenly decided that he wanted _someone else_ to do the interview instead?”

Betty flinched back as Mr. Jameson’s voice rose to a shout. He was grinding his teeth together in such a way that Peter wondered if he was going to leap over his desk and strangle Betty to death.

“Y-yes, sir,” Betty squeaked, whatever resentment she held towards Peter overshadowed by her fear of Mr. Jameson.

“You promised some nameless eye-candy an interview, and let the bastard get a big enough head to… damn it, I need a smoke!” Mr. Jameson cut himself off, seething as he rummaged through his desk.

After what felt like hours, he pushed away from the desk and leapt to his feet, pointing at Betty angrily. “If you want even a _chance_ of not being fired on the spot, you better get out and buy me a goddamn cigar!”

Betty sat, frozen in her seat.

“Did I stutter, you useless brat? _Get out!”_

Betty jumped to her feet, flinging the door open and scurrying towards the elevator. Mr. Jameson brushed past Peter, sticking his head out the door to shout after Betty. “And be competent this time, and get me something actually worthwhile!”

There was a pause as the entire office stopped to watch Betty step into the elevator, holding back her tears. Peter felt awful for her, but he had bigger things to worry about. 

“Now, Parker…” Peter gulped, straightening his spine as Mr. Jameson walked back over to his desk. “I’ve been wanting to have this discussion with you for a long time.”

Oh, Peter was _fucked._

“Did I do something wrong, sir?” Peter mumbled, shifting in his chair uncomfortably.

Mr. Jameson paced in front of his desk. The sudden calmness he emanated sent chills down Peter’s spine. Every step Mr. Jameson took looked deliberate, as though he’d thought about what he was going to do long before he did it. It seemed practiced.

Almost like a dance.

“Betty isn’t the best writer I have on my team, but she does have a nose for a scoop. She’s been my employee for a long time, because she knows how to get people’s attention, and how to keep it,” Mr. Jameson began.

Peter knew he should be paying attention, but he found himself zoning out. Maybe it was just some sort of defense mechanism, with the way his brain automatically made him drift off into another place.

The music was soft, but the intensity of the notes was building. There was Mr. Jameson, on the stage, wearing a fluffy, pink tutu. He was holding Peter up above his head, dancing around the empty stage. The image caused a small smile to tug at Peter’s lips.

“Is that funny, Parker?”

Mr. Jameson dropped Peter, but caught him just before he hit the floor. The dance continued.

“No, sir, nothing. You’re absolutely right.”

“Of course I am. So here’s how this goes—“

Peter was perched on Mr. Jameson’s shoulder, holding on for dear life as the older man spun around and around.

“—you somehow knew that Betty found someone who might be able to sell papers, but you managed to get to him first.”

The accusation almost snapped Peter out of his fantasy. He wanted to speak, but he just kept on spinning around and around.

“You seduced him, and stole him out from under Betty’s nose.”

Mr. Jameson stopped spinning, and dropped Peter again. Once more, Peter was caught in the nick of time.

“I didn’t—“

“Don’t try to argue with me, Parker, I wasn’t the only one who saw you in that elevator. Even if I didn’t, word travels fast around here.”

He was being spun around and around and around again. Everything was becoming a blur. He had to get out. His head ached, his vision became blurry, the apprehension that filled his gut ate at him from the inside. Still, he was spun around again,

And again,

And again,

And again,

Until, finally—

“You’re fired.”

Peter crashed onto the floor. The orchestra went silent. He was left alone on the stage. Thousands of eyes bore into him at once, tearing at him with looks of disdain.

“I’m… what?”

The illusion was gone. Peter was back in Mr. Jameson’s office, dumbfounded as his eyes met Mr. Jameson’s.

“You heard me, Parker. You’re fired.”

“But—But that doesn’t make any sense!” Peter exclaimed, leaping to his feet. “This was my first offense! A-and, I didn’t _seduce_ Dr. Beck! I just—we just—he’s not—“ The words got stuck in his throat, as every argument he could think of vanished from his mind. Mr. Jameson looked angry, but he only stared at Peter expectantly. “He’s probably not into guys… _especially_ me,” Peter continued quietly. “We just talked, and he just wanted me to do the interview for some reason. I can tell him no, I can make him meet with Betty, just please don’t fire me.”

He sounded defeated, which was exactly how he felt. Of course Quentin didn’t see him like he saw him.

It just hurt to finally say it out loud.

There was a pause, presumably so Mr. Jameson could make sure Peter was done talking. The door creaked open, and Betty stepped inside. She glanced between the two men, before handing Mr. Jameson a box of cigars and leaving with a meek apology. Mr. Jameson took one out before proceeding.

“I never really liked you, Parker,” he said, inspecting the cigar like it hid some sort of unraveled mystery. “When I hired you, it wasn’t because I thought you had talent, it was because you seemed like a pushover, who would do anything for a good review.” He placed the cigar between his teeth, talking around it while lighting it up. “Young, desperate, no self-worth, no other means of income… and even then, you had the cheek to arrive seconds before your shift started.”

Peter watched as Mr. Jameson took a moment to relish in the cigar, puffing smoke out through his teeth without removing the cigar from his mouth.

“Nothing about you has changed, though. I just got tired of it. I’ve been putting up with your bullshit for a long time, and now I finally have an excuse to get rid of you for good.” He then moved around to the other side of his desk, plopping down in his chair and pulling out that day’s issue of the Daily Bugle. “I want you out by the end of the day. Sooner would be better than later, though.”

Peter bit his tongue, holding back words that he was too frightened to say. He only nodded, and went to go pack up his things.

**  
“I-I just don’t unders-stand!” Peter hiccuped, desperately trying to slow his breathing through his tears. He didn’t plan on breaking down when he came to see MJ at the cafe, but once she noticed him standing in the doorway with his satchel and an air of defeat, the dam flooded over. “I-it was j-just an i-i-interview! A-and he—“

“Hey, shh,” MJ soothed, quietly handing Peter a mug of hot cocoa. They were lucky that no one else was in the shop. Well, Brad might have been there, if he hadn’t decided to take his lunch break early once the waterworks got going. “You don’t have to talk about it now, just take your time.”

“What’ll we do-o a-about r-rent? I’m not even ge-etting my l-last p-paycheck…” MJ sighed, muttering something about old white men, before heading back behind the counter.

“You’re gonna need more than just cocoa. I’ll get you a chocolate croissant, but only if you stop crying, and _drink.”_

“B-But you said I could take my—“

“I changed my mind. I’m here for you, Pete, but I want to be able to actually understand you when you tell me about your problems,” MJ interrupted, ducking behind the counter to dig through the pastries.

Peter sniffed, suddenly remembering something. He pushed his hot cocoa to the side, ignoring the scorching heat on his fingers as he did so, and began to rummage through his satchel. He pulled out his phone, and a neatly folded receipt. He didn’t want to risk crumpling the delicate paper, so he had put it in a side pocket he rarely used.

He unfolded the receipt with one hand, while opening up the messages on his phone with the other. He typed in the number scrawled on the receipt, before setting it aside. As he went to type something, his mind suddenly drew a blank.

What was he supposed to say? “Hey, it’s Peter! I know I promised you an interview, but I actually just got fired, and now I’m letting you know, so it can eat at your conscience for the rest of your life! :)”? Of course not!

This was all his fault, and his fault alone. If he had just been a better employee, or found the courage to tell Quentin that he wasn’t going to interview him, or if he wasn’t a “young, cheeky pushover with no self-worth,” like Mr. Jameson said, maybe none of this would have happened.

All the defeat and humiliation washed over Peter anew, sending a stray tear to run down his red and blotchy face. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, dreading whatever Quentin’s response will be. Maybe he really will hate him this time. It was that thought that prompted Peter to type in his message.

No clarification, no context, no nothing. Just…

_Sorry._


	7. An Awkward Phone Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know anything about working in a hospital, but my brain said “I’m gonna write in Quentin’s POV!” in the same way 9-year-old John Mulaney told his dad he was gonna be a Democrat after meeting Bill Clinton one (1) time.

Quentin Beck liked to think of himself as a disciplined man. He may not be the calmest person on Earth, but he was very good at hiding his inner turmoil from the outside world. If it wasn’t such a risky business, he might have even considered becoming an actor. As far as anyone he’d met knew, he didn’t have a shred of anger or frustration in him.

He might have even believed it himself.

That is, if he hadn’t met Peter. 

There was something about Peter, some kind of feeling, that Quentin just couldn’t place. There was a strange sort of endearment that accompanied every small interaction and glance he shared with the younger man.

But what did it mean?

He kept telling himself that it was probably just affection for a new friend, that he was just excited. But then what was this overwhelming fear that came from seeing just one word?

_Sorry._

Sorry? Sorry what? What happened? That text was from Peter, right? _Right?_

“This sucks,” Quentin muttered, running a hand through his hair for what was probably the hundredth time that day. When he had taken a quick break earlier, he had hoped to just check some emails and drink some water or something. Instead, he had opened one text and spent the rest of his time worrying over it.

“Beck, are you— um…” Quentin turned to see William, a nurse who he had often crossed paths with despite the fact that they never directly worked together. “Are you leaving soon?” 

Quentin checked his watch, cursing under his breath. William’s already meek expression became even more feeble as he stared, wide-eyed at Quentin.

Right, Quentin probably looked like a psychopath in comparison to his usual self—disheveled hair, light scratches on his chin from his nervous habit, and an undisguised look of frustration in his eyes. He certainly looked nothing like the friendly, professional man he made himself out to be every other day.

“Right, right, yeah. It’s already dark. I have to make sure May didn’t burn the house down trying to cook some macaroni.” He chuckled, trying to make a joke in an attempt to make himself look less crazy, but his laugh seemed just a little too hysterical. He rubbed his jaw absentmindedly, his mind wandering back to what he assumed was Peter’s text.

Something happened. Something had to have happened. Was it his fault? Was Peter hurt because of him? Quentin had only known Peter for a while, but he couldn’t stop the worry that gnawed at him. He was a little mad that Peter had sent such a vague text, but he was mostly mad at himself for messing around with the boy and asking so much of him.

“Interview me, Peter! It’ll be fine, Peter!” He muttered, mimicking himself as he brushed past William. Oh, as he walked down the hallway, he realized just how busy it was.

He needed to calm down. The only thing worrying was going to do was stress him out. He tried to smooth his hair down as he turned a corner, flashing a smile at a nurse who he nearly crashed into.

_Just calm down, Quentin. You can call him when you get home. It’ll be fine. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? He tells me he got fired or something?_

_…_

_Oh._

_Oh shit._

***  
“He’s going to hate meee!” Peter whined, shutting his laptop and rolling over on the bed.

“You may be an idiot, Peter, but you’d never fall in love with a guy who would hate you over something that wasn’t your fault,” MJ grunted, lightly pushing Peter away from her as she typed on her laptop. “How does a janitor sound? I hear the bathrooms at UWU Elementary are extra dirty this year.” She swiveled the computer around so Peter could see it.

“Hm. Gross. And don’t change the subject,” Peter huffed. “I can focus on looking for a job after I’ve told Dr. Beck the bad news. Once I get that out of my system, I can accept his hate and move on with my life.”

“You’re such a drama queen!” MJ shut her laptop and set it to the side. “Why are you so convinced he hates you, anyway? He’s been nothing but nice to you, based on what you told me before.”

Peter bit his lip, looking embarrassed. “I just… god, it’s stupid saying it out loud, now that I think about it…”

“You say a lot of stupid things. I’m used to it.”

Peter glared at his friend, but she only smirked knowingly. “He, _ugh_ I just… _he left me on read.”_

“Shocking.”

“You _sound_ shocked,” Peter replied sarcastically, his face growing hot.

“I mean, you didn’t give him your number in return, did you? So, in his eyes, he probably just got a slightly cryptic message from an unknown number,” MJ explained.

Peter paused to think about it. What MJ said made sense. In fact, she was usually right about a lot of things.

“Yeah, I guess—“

_With the taste of your lips I’m on a ride_

MJ and Peter shared a look as the song continued to play, muffled by Peter’s backpack.

“I can explain—“

“Just pick it up, you walking disaster,” MJ huffed, turning her attention back to her laptop as Peter scrambled off the bed. He hurried to unzip his backpack and rummage through it, trying to reach his phone before it stopped ringing.

_I’m addicted to you don’t y—_

“Speter peaking! I mean—Peter speaking!” He squeaked, fumbling with the phone as he brought it to his ear. He glanced at MJ, who was rolling her eyes at him. On the other end of the line, Peter could hear a warm chuckle.

“I thought it was you. How are you, Peter?”

“Good!” Peter replied automatically, realizing his mistake immediately after. “Well, I mean, not _good_ good, but a kind of normal good? Things could be better—I mean, they _really_ could, but, um…”

“Really?”

There was a pause, and Peter sucked in a breath. Quentin sounded skeptical, and he was afraid they were going to address the elephant in the room far sooner than he had hoped. He heard Quentin take a breath, as though he was about to speak, but Peter interrupted him.

“Anyway, how are you? How’s May? Did her teacher ever get back to you about that email we talked about earlier?” He sat upright on his knees, his back straight. All of his nervous energy was either being expelled through his fingers frantically drumming on his knee, or his painfully awkward blabbering.

“She’s, uh… good. I’m good. No follow-up with the email…” Quentin sounded nervous, like there was something he wasn’t saying. 

Well, that made two of them.

“Actually, I didn’t really get a chance to see if she responded,” he said slowly, presumably trying to find the right words to explain his situation. “I got hung up on a particular message—“

“I-I-Is it already eleven? Wow, time sure does like to… uh… do that. Move. Forward. It’s crazy how, um—“

_”What was the meaning of that text, Peter?”_

MJ, noticing the scared look on Peter’s face, closed her laptop and joined him on the floor.

“I’ve been thinking about it all day, so I don’t want any excuses or diversions,” Quentin went on. “I wanted to get to know you better, and looked for an excuse. I gave you my number, hoping for a chance to talk or something, and the first thing I get from you is ‘sorry.’ Sorry what? What the hell happened in the short amount of time between when I left the cafe and when you sent the text?”

“I…” Peter found himself choking up. “I just… didn’t want you to be mad at me.”

“What? Peter, I would never—“

“I know! And that’s the problem! I trust you, I know you’re one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, even though I’ve only known you for a little bit, but then I just can’t get that little paranoid voice out of my head, telling me that it’s all a lie and you hate me, and I just couldn’t tell you what happened, because I didn’t want to face what could have been another shitty truth! 

“And it’s always _they hate you, they hate you, they hate you_ and sometimes I’m right! Today, I found out that Mr. Jameson really _does_ hate me, and I know I should have told you that I got fired—“

“You wh—“

“—and you deserve an explanation, too, but I just couldn’t take the chance that I might be right about you, too! And I wasn’t thinking straight, and I should’ve just told you the whole story, but I just couldn’t trust you for some reason, even though I l—“

Peter stopped.

He was rambling.

He had to _calm down._

He sniffed, taking a shaky breath. “Even though I… like... you a lot. You’ve been nothing but an awesome friend so far. So yeah, I got fired. I can’t interview you anymore, and I’m sorry about that.”

There was a faint scratching noise. Peter guessed that Quentin was scratching at his beard from the other end of the line. Peter listened, tightly gripping his knee with the hand that wasn’t holding up his phone.

“I’m not mad at you, Peter,” Quentin sighed. “And none of this is your fault. I was being selfish, and my request cost you your job. I’m the one who’s sorry, I—“

_”Doctor? Who are you talking to?”_

A small, female voice could be heard on Quentin’s end. Peter’s heart jumped into his throat, but he soon realized that it was the voice of a little girl. He could hear something—presumably Quentin’s hand—muffle the phone’s mic, so he could talk to the child.

_”It’s just a friend. We had a bit of a… miscommunication that we’re trying to clear up,”_ Quentin explained. Peter felt a twinge of guilt for listening in on their conversation, but his curiosity got the better of him.

_”Oh.”_ There was a pause. _”Well, I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”_

_”Goodnight.”_ Peter could hear the fondness in Quentin’s voice, and couldn’t help the feeling of endearment that welled up in his chest. “Sorry about that. It was just May saying goodnight,” Quentin said, his voice becoming much clearer as he resumed his conversation with Peter.

“Yeah,” Peter replied softly.

“Yeah.”

An awkward silence fell over the pair, prompting Peter to speak up again.

“So, um, are we cool? You’re not mad at me?”

“Of course not. And you’re not mad at me?”

“N-no!”

“Then, yeah, I guess we are cool,” Quentin laughed. “By the way, I have an idea. I think there might be a job that I know of that you would be good at, but I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. For now, go to bed. You’re still growing, after all.”

“I’m twenty-four!” Peter huffed, indignant. “But okay. You too, though. You’re still growing, too.”

Quentin laughed warmly, causing a smile to break out on Peter’s face. He had no idea how one man could make him so happy with just the littlest of interactions.

“Goodnight, Peter.”

“Goodnight, Dr. Beck.”

“Just Quentin is fine.”

_Click._

Peter listened to the phone beep for a few seconds, before putting it down. He let out a slow breath and turned to look at MJ. Her eyes widened, and she backed up a bit.

“No, Peter, it’s past eleven, people are trying to sl—“

Peter squealed, jumping at MJ and rolling across the floor. Despite her protests, MJ laughed with him as all their neighbors simultaneously banged on the wall.

Maybe, just maybe, things weren’t going to be so bad after all.


	8. A Promising Career

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I missed the one month anniversary since the last time I updated by a few days, I’m sorry úwù. Also, don’t worry, I’ve decided to abandon my dignity and work on this while at school too, since I don’t have a lot of time outside of it anyway! Yay!

“Maybe you should put some of that nervous energy to work,” MJ suggested, tossing Peter an extra rag as she continued to wipe down the tables. “You’ll only wear yourself down otherwise.”

Peter caught the rag on instinct, but continued to pace back and forth, distantly wondering if he might leave marks on the floor of the Avengers Cafe.

“I am a Sim. I’m too tense to complete that task,” he muttered robotically.

“I knew I shouldn’t have let you play video games instead of going to sleep last night.” MJ passed by Peter, grabbing back the rag she gave him as she went. “I thought it might make you freak out less, but now you’re just freaking out while making Sims references. Where the hell is Brad? I need someone else here so I don’t end up going crazy with you.”

“Thanks for the support, MJ,” Peter called, hardly paying his friend any attention.

Oh, God, what did Dr. Beck—no, he had asked Peter to call him Quentin—have in store for him? Was it an easy job? Was it a hard job? Well, then again, Peter’s idea of a hard job tended to differ from other people’s. He could study subjects and perfect work strategies (in fact, it only took him a few days to find the best way to approach being a tabloid journalist), but no amount of studying could make up for his clumsiness.

You’d think a ballet dancer, someone who trains to amaze others with their grace and beauty, could work a minimum-wage job delivering food to people, but _noooo._ There was a reason why Peter was so hesitant about giving Quentin coffee the other day, and it might have had something to do with a few broken mugs and a first-degree burn.

What would Peter do if he knew he couldn’t do the job? Either he says, “oh, no thanks, I’m good wallowing in my despair,” or he fails at doing a simple task, and Quentin will see what an absolute disaster Peter really is.

“MJ, I don’t know what to do with myself!” Peter groaned, finally coming to a standstill as he faced his friend.

“MJ can’t come to the phone right now.”

_”Ugh!”_

“You’ll be fine! Just calm down, and wait for Dr. Handsome to arrive and sweep you off your feet.”

“With the way my thoughts are heading, I’m afraid I’ll have run off before he even gets here,” Peter groaned, plopping down onto a nearby chair.

“You’re really annoying when you have a crush on someone, you know that?” MJ said, sticking out her tongue as Peter glared at her. “I just hope you get tired of worrying all the time. No matter the crazy scenarios you make up in your mind, you’re just gonna end up acting like a love-sick puppy in front of Dr. Handsome anyway, so what’s the point?”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. “I mean, I kind of get what you’re saying, but it’s not like I can just turn off my anxiety, MJ.”

MJ raised an eyebrow.

Suddenly embarrassed, Peter hid his face in his hands. “I mean… I’ve tried.”

There was a pause, as the implications in Peter’s words sunk in. 

“Anyway!” He added, sitting up and glancing at MJ with thinly-veiled panic. She gazed at him, and Peter could have sworn he saw pity reflected in her eyes.

“Anyway,” MJ echoed, glancing at the doors before making her way over to Peter. “I know you’re a stupid idiot when it comes to love—”

“Rude.”

“—but if just talking to him is giving you this much anxiety, is he really right for you? Is it maybe…” she trailed off for a moment, her eyebrows knitting together as she struggled to find the words. “Are you scared of him?”

There was a beat of silence as Peter processed his friend’s words.

“Scared? Wha—I’m—MJ, that’s—” He began to laugh, but the nervous grin on his face faded as he met MJ’s gaze. She was serious. “MJ I’m not—” He sighed, shifting in his seat. He had been so busy worrying about facing his own fears that he hadn’t bothered to quell any of MJ’s.

Peter reached out and took MJ’s hand. “Thank you for worrying about me, MJ, but I promise I’m not scared of him. Doc— _Quentin_ would never hurt me. He’s not that kind of guy. Sure, I’m a little intimidated—”

MJ snorted. Peter gave her a look, and she cleared her throat as if to say, “go on.”

“I’m a little intimidated, but…” He sighed, smiling softly into the distance. “I just really like him. He’s kind, and charismatic, and I look up to him. If he’s this perfect, how could I _not_ be a little scared? I mean, it’s unnatural. He’s, like, that one god guy, y’know? I forgot the name, but it’s Greek or something?”

“Zeus?”

“Ew, no, Zeus is gross.”

“Oh!” MJ slapped the table. “Adonis?”

“Yeah! That guy!”

MJ laughed, causing Peter’s face to break out in a grin as well. “You’re such a dork,” she huffed, blowing a piece of hair out of her face. She glanced at the door again, standing up and walking back behind the counter as she said, “you’re a good guy, Peter. Almost too good. Sometimes, I freak myself out thinking about how people might take advantage of your kindness and whatnot, but…”

She tied her hair up and smoothed down the wrinkles of her apron, just as the sound of bells rang through the cafe. She ignored it, and instead smiled at Peter from across the room.

“I don’t think I need to worry this time around.”

Quentin glanced between them, standing in the doorway. “Did I walk in on a tender moment? Should I leave and come back so you two can finish?” His tone was light and joking, but the offer was still very obviously there. Peter flashed him a wide smile and beckoned him over to his table.

“You’re just in time!”

~~  
“A nanny?”

“Why not? I’m very busy, and my schedule is erratic. May needs someone to look after her while I’m at work.” Quentin leaned forward, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers. Peter could feel his face heat up as Quentin‘s gaze met with his own. “She’s been lonely. She says she’s not, but I can tell. She’s not very good at lying, which I think might come in handy while you’re getting to know her.” He shrugged and added, “ _If_ you get to know her. I don’t want to push this on you if you have other job prospects.”

“I don’t, and I’d really like to be May’s nanny, but, uh…” Peter trailed off, glancing at MJ, who was not-so-subtly listening in on their conversation, despite the chatter from the customers in front of her. She caught his gaze and raised her eyebrows quizzically.

“You’ll only be responsible for her for the evenings: between the time she gets back from school, and the time I get back from work. Easy, right?” Quentin smiled, and Peter was glad that Quentin was able to answer what Peter couldn’t vocalize.

“Right,” Peter replied, taking a tentative sip of his hot cocoa. Being unemployed sucked, but at least he wasn’t in a rush to get through his morning routine and head to the office. Instead, he could spend some time talking to Quentin and enjoying breakfast (if you could call it that).

“Just remember that you can back out at any time if you want to,” Quentin assured him. “Honestly, I just thought of this last night. I figured, since we could both benefit from it, why not? I just want to get you back on your feet, so you can start doing the things you love again.”

_I’d love to do_ you.

Woah there, Peter, calm down.

“I…” Peter’s eyes wandered over to the newspaper clippings on the wall behind Quentin’s head.

Maybe Quentin was right. Maybe he should start pursuing the things that actually make him happy: the dancing, the heat of the stage lights, the roar of the crowd... dark brown hair, blue eyes, a muscular build... “I would love to be May’s nanny.”

Quentin grinned, holding out his hand for Peter to shake.

“I’m glad to hear it. I need to get going, so I’ll text you the specifics later, okay?” He said. Once Peter had given his hand an enthusiastic shake, he began to collect his things. As he finished, he looked at Peter one last time. And, with a tenderness that surprised them both, he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Thoroughly flustered by the unforeseen attack on his heart, Peter only nodded and waved numbly as his Doctor left the cafe.


	9. Peter Parker: Proud Graduate of Clown College

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, doing my best to get to the story y’all signed up for:
> 
> This Sound of Music subplot: :)  
> **  
> By the way! I’m gonna start doing a “previously on” at the beginning of chapters, since updates seem to be happening about a month apart and I don’t want y’all to have to reread a chapter to know what’s going on.

Previously:

 _Maybe Quentin was right. Maybe Peter should start pursuing the things that actually make him happy: the dancing, the heat of the stage lights, the roar of the crowd, and… “I would love to be May’s nanny.”_  
***

“What if he’s not here? What if I came too early? What if no one answers? What if I have the wrong address?” Peter fret, pacing back and forth in front of the door. “Come on, Peter, you’re being ridiculous. Of course it’s the right address. Just knock on the door, you idiot.”

As Peter had come to find recently, it helped his anxiety an awful lot to talk to himself out loud. That way, he could hear for himself just how ridiculous his worries were. Then again, that gave cause to another anxiety: worrying if people could hear him talk to himself. 

“Are ya done babbling to yourself, ya wee twink? What do ya want?”

Peter jumped back in surprise as the door opened to reveal a stout old woman with ruddy brown hair. 

“I-Is Doctor—”

“Yer one floor short. A swear that doctor couldn’t recite ‘is address if ‘e was ‘eld at gunpoint!” The woman grumbled, shooing Peter further down the hallway of the apartment complex. Peter quietly allowed himself to be herded towards the stairs.

Peter was thoroughly confused, but that didn’t stop him from trying to be polite, and make a good impression on this strange new person.

“Um, thank y—”

“Don’t bother. Ya’ll wish you’d ‘ave turned tail an’ ran in a few days.” Peter used his arms to cover himself self-consciously as the woman eyed him. “It’s a shame, really. Ya seem like a good kid, too,” she sighed.

Before Peter could ask what she meant, he let out a yelp as she nearly pushed him down the stairs. He grabbed the wall to steady himself, looking back up just in time to see the door to the woman’s apartment slam shut.

Huh.

After taking a moment to shake off his embarrassment and process what had happened, Peter made the short trek up to the next floor. Hopefully, he’ll get the right door this time.

“Let’s see… four, five… oh, yeah, that’s what it was.” Peter stopped in front of room 306. Before he knocked, though, he whipped out his phone and double-checked the text Quentin had sent him earlier.

_Hey Peter! If it’s alright with you, you can come over later. Maybe around 6? I get off early today, so I can treat you to some dinner and introduce you to May. I live in the apartment complex a block away from the cafe. You might have passed by it on your way to the Bugle—_

Peter felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him at the mention of his old workplace. Sure, Mr. Jameson had been a dick to him the moment he was employed, but there were some good memories too. Gossiping with Betty, embarrassing Mr. Jameson with the one and only time the office sang happy birthday to him, getting paid enough that he and MJ didn’t have to go into debt with their landlord… yeah, no, that’s about it.

_—but I can send you the address if you need it. We’re in apartment 206. See you there (hopefully)_

And then, ten minutes after that message had been sent, Quentin said:

_I meant 306, sorry!_

Peter had already seen the correction, but he had confused himself in his rush to get there as soon as possible.

Just as he pocketed his phone and prepared to knock on the correct door this time, it opened right in front of him.

It took Peter a moment to realize that, no, a ghost didn’t open the door, it was just answered by someone incredibly short. As he looked down, he understood why.

“Who are you?” May asked, her voice quiet but stern. From the fond way Quentin had talked about her, Peter certainly didn’t expect the hostility, especially from such a sweet-looking girl. Her long brown hair was done up in uneven pigtails--whether she did it herself, or Quentin did, Peter didn’t know--and light freckles dotted her features. Still, her baby blue eyes were wary, if not a little haunted.

Peter was about to reply—though really, what was he going to say? “Hi, I’m Peter! I’m gonna hang out with you for a while in an attempt to get closer to your foster dad!” It was ridiculous, but maybe May might respect him to a degree because of his honesty—but then another voice chimed in.

“May, what did I say about answering the door without me near—Oh, hello, Peter.” As he walked into view, Quentin was pulling a forest green sweater over his head. Just from the brief glimpse of Quentin’s midriff and the sight of his slightly messy hair, Peter could feel his heart begin to race.

“Not everyone who knocks on the door is here to kidnap me,” May protested, leaving the door open and scurrying towards Quentin to hide behind him. As she peered out from behind Quentin’s leg, Peter noticed that she had scars peeking out from under her floral, yellow dress. From what he could tell, they snaked over the side of her right arm and up to her collarbone. He was suddenly reminded of what Quentin had told him about May’s family and the car crash.

“I’m not here to kidnap you, I’m just here for dinner,” he said softly, holding his hands out placatingly. Quentin laughed and side-stepped to let Peter in. Peter could feel his face heat up from the sound, but stepped inside nonetheless.

“Another one?” May asked dubiously.

Quentin chuckled. “I know you weren’t too keen on the other nannies, but just trust me on this one. May, this is Peter. Peter, May.”

May scrutinized Peter for a moment, leaving him to wonder if she saw something that he didn’t, but she eventually managed a reluctant “hi.”

“Does this, uh, ‘other nannies’ thing have anything to do with the cryptic message the woman downstairs left me with?” Peter asked, trying his best to keep the conversation going.

“Oh, you met Friday,” Quentin mused, ushering both Peter and May further into the apartment as he talked. “I think she hates me a little bit.”

“Really? What kind of person could ever hate someone like you?” As soon as the words came out of his mouth, Peter realized how much they sounded like the words of a smitten fifteen-year-old meeting their favorite celebrity for the first time. Oh, God, Peter was a fanboy, wasn’t he? “Oh, uh, not that I like you or anything—I mean, I do, but not like a whole bunch, you know? I mean I _do_ but not like—like _that_ , like a normal amount? I mean we just met, how could I like you like that? Not that you can’t make anyone like you like that! I just, um…” he trailed off, suddenly aware of Quentin and May’s gazes on him. “...y’know?”

In the brief silence that followed, Peter surprised himself by meeting May’s eyes—maybe he felt like he needed her approval or something? Like, “hey, I just made it painfully obvious that I’m crushing on your legal guardian, but are we cool anyway?”

He wasn’t sure.

She stared at him, seemingly searching for something. Peter was a little disappointed when she apparently didn’t find it. She turned on her heel and marched further into the apartment, disappearing around a corner. Both Peter and Quentin watched her go.

“Sorry about May. I should have mentioned that she’s been getting a little picky with her nannies lately,” Quentin said, sighing as he turned to face Peter again. “I just thought that, since you’re so easy to get along with, she’d warm up to you immediately or something. God, it sounds dumb now that I’m saying it out loud.” He chuckled, but there wasn’t much mirth behind it.

Before Peter could reply, Quentin patted him on the back and started walking towards the hallway May had gone into.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go eat. She’ll warm up to you eventually.”

“Doctor, where did you put the clean plates?” May called.

“They’re on the top shelf! Let Peter help you get them down, okay?” Quentin replied, flashing Peter a grin as the sound of something being dragged across a hardwood floor could be heard. Peter laughed and followed him into the kitchen just in time to see May balancing precariously on top of a chair.

“Wh—“

“Careful!” Quentin surged forward and caught May as she tottered backwards. “I told you to let Peter help, didn’t I?” He scolded, setting her down on solid ground.

“You guys were taking too long,” May protested. “Besides, I’m a strong, independent woman!”

Quentin ruffled May’s hair, eliciting sounds of protest from her. “That’s right, but Peter’s taller. Strong, independent women know when it’s appropriate to ask for help. You could have hurt yourself!”

May’s eyes widened. “I didn’t mean to make you worry about me, Doctor.”

Quentin glanced at Peter before squatting down to meet May’s height. “I always worry about the people I care about, May. Just ask Peter. I probably freaked him out with that late-night phone call the other day. Remember that, Peter?” He looked behind him, smiling up at Peter, who was startled by the sudden spotlight that had been put on him. Instead of answering the question though, he asked another one.

“Wh—You care about me?”

It came out much higher than Peter anticipated, causing a dark blush to creep up his face.

Quentin considered him for a moment, before grabbing him by the shirt and dragging him down to join the rest of the group on the floor. Luckily, Peter was able to catch himself before he slammed face-first onto the floor.

“Oh, sorry, are you okay?” Quentin asked, removing his hand from Peter’s shirt, and instead used it to cup Peter’s face. Peter gulped, forcing himself to meet Quentin’s gaze as the older man briefly searched him for any sign of injuries.

“I’m fine,” he breathed, trying his best to resist the strong urge to nuzzle into Quentin’s hand. There was a child present, and it really wasn’t the time to see how much Quentin would indulge Peter’s crush on him.

Quentin smiled in that soft, lopsided way of his. “Good, because I really do care about you. Both of you.” He pulled his hand back slowly, letting it linger, and lightly brushed his fingertips past Peter’s hair.

Peter might have melted, except he was jolted out of his stupor as Quentin threw an arm around his shoulders. When he looked over at May, he realized that she was facing the same treatment.

But she didn’t look very happy.

“If you really care about me, you won’t say what I think you’re gonna say,” she huffed.

“What? That I made spaghetti? I thought you loved spaghetti!”

“I love it when _other_ people make it. You suck at cooking.”

Quentin made a noise of indignation. He nodded towards Peter while still talking to May. “I wanted to do something special for our guest!”

“By doing what? Giving him food poisoning?”

Now, Peter had never been much of a family person. He didn’t really have a traditional family, with a mom and dad. He loved his aunt, but sometimes he wondered if, just maybe, he might not be such an awkward screw-up if he had a dad or a mom. Maybe things would have been different had he had a different upbringing.

Those feelings hadn’t completely disappeared. In fact, he could feel them creeping in as he quietly watched Quentin and May go back and forth. But this time, there was a bit of hope in the feeling.

The two people standing (well, squatting) in front of him were not related by blood or adoption papers, just by circumstance. There was no mom, no marriage, just an accident and a miracle.

And they made it work. 

Peter wanted to be a part of it; he wanted to share in their happiness and give them some in return. Even if it never happened, if Quentin never reciprocated his feelings, Peter wanted to find his own comfort.

His own family.

He grinned, shrugging his shoulders. “Spaghetti sounds great.”

For the first time since Peter had met her (which wasn’t very long, but he felt accomplished nonetheless), May smiled at him.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”


	10. Watery Marinara with a side of Foreshadowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVE, BITCH!!
> 
> Don’t worry, kiddos, the actual plot will be here soon. Sure, Peter will be sad all the timeTM, but hey, it’s all for love babey

Previously

_Peter grinned, shrugging his shoulders. “Spaghetti sounds great.”_

_For the first time since Peter had met her (which wasn’t very long, but he felt accomplished nonetheless), May smiled at him._

_“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”_  
***

May was absolutely right. The spaghetti was terrible. Peter didn’t know how it was possible for the noodles to be both soggy and crunchy at the same time. Not to mention, the pre-made sauce tasted as though it had been—

“Did you put something special in this sauce? It has an, uh, _unique_ taste, I guess.”

Quentin smiled, oblivious to Peter’s apparent revulsion. “Oh I microwaved it, that’s all. Just to keep it warm, y’know?”

Yeah. Thought so. As someone who had only recently graduated from university, Peter knew the taste of all things microwaved all too easily. It was kind of like a sixth sense at this point. He kind of felt like one of those television mediums that will stop and dramatically say, “I sense a presence in the room” only, instead of the ghost of a random crew member’s grandfather, it was watery marinara.

Peter shared a glance with May. He noticed that she hadn’t even bothered to touch her own serving of spaghetti. Smart.

To avoid having to eat too much of the horrid not-spaghetti, Peter tried talking. 

“So, uh, actually, my aunt’s name is May!” He piped up, setting down his fork. 

“Really?” Quentin followed suit, turning his full attention towards Peter. “You never mentioned it.”

Peter shrugged. “I forgot until recently,” he admitted. “I mean, I didn’t forget about my aunt–she raised me, how could I–but I just made the connection.” 

There was a pause as both Quentin and May pondered the implications that came with the words “she raised me”. Realizing this was probably dangerous territory, Peter quickly changed the subject. 

“A-anyway, isn’t it confusing when you know more than one person with the same name?”

Quentin smiled, briefly glancing at the mostly untouched plates of spaghetti surrounding him. “Yeah. I actually know another Peter myself,” he replied, standing up and collecting the plates. Apparently, he had realized that neither Peter nor May planned on eating any more. “I mostly just call him Quill, though.”

“Oh, I’ll help!” Peter offered, jumping to his feet and following Quentin into the kitchen with his plate in hand.

“Thank you,” Quentin said softly, setting the plates down on the counter and turning his attention to the cabinets, where Peter assumed he was looking for some kind of tupperware for the leftovers.

“It wasn’t a very long walk from the table,” Peter replied jokingly.

Quentin snorted. He set the plastic containers on the counter before turning to face Peter again.

“Not just for that—for May, too. I realize that she can be a handful when she wants to be, and watching her could very well be time-consuming...” He trailed off for a moment, before chuckling softly. “I’m not making this job sound very appealing, am I?”

“Not really,” Peter snickered. “But really, I should be the one thanking you. I really need a job, and May seems like a sweet girl. Honestly, I’m surprised you’re even trusting me to take care of her. I mean, surely you must know how much of a mess I am at this point, and it’s a miracle you haven’t seen me break anything at the cafe yet. Or, wait, did you? See, I’m just—“

“Hey, hey, slow down.” Peter’s mouth snapped shut as Quentin placed a soothing hand on his shoulder. “You’re a lot more capable than you think. You’re smart, and talented, and really easy to get along with.”

Peter only nodded wordlessly, unable to drag his gaze away from Quentin’s. God, he was such an idiot. Here he was, being complimented by his crush, and all he could bother thinking about was how close they were standing together.

Really though, if Peter just leaned forward, he could brush their lips together. Somehow, despite knowing that Quentin probably didn’t even like men, it didn’t seem like such a bad idea to Peter. He gulped.

“Thank you, Mister—um! Doctor—wait—Q-Quentin? That, um… thanks.”

Quentin‘s expression softened, causing Peter’s heart rate to skyrocket. He opened his mouth to say something else, when—

“Not again,” May groaned, throwing a reproachful glance at Quentin as she passed the two men to get to the sink. She stood on her tiptoes, filling the glass she was carrying with water. Quentin left Peter’s side to help her, leaving Peter feeling a mix of confusion, elation, and embarrassment.

Clearing his throat, Peter suddenly felt a surge of confidence course through him. Shaking off his embarrassment, he decided to see what it might be like to make Quentin flushed for a change.

“‘Again’? Do you corner your nannies in the kitchen often, Doctor?” Peter teased. Quentin whipped around to stare at Peter, eliciting a noise of protest from May as her glass teetered in her small hands. Quentin helped her retrieve it safely before turning back towards Peter. It was with no small satisfaction that Peter realized the doctor was blushing.

Maybe managing to become less of a stuttering mess around Quentin wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all, if Peter could garner this kind of reaction to his quips.

“I-I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable—that is, I didn’t mean to corner you like that in the first place—“

Peter laughed, wordlessly assuring Quentin that he was joking. May rolled her eyes and left with her glass of water, eager to get away from the sight of her nanny and foster father’s flirtations.

“I was just teasing,” Peter said, noticing that Quentin looked torn between laughing and gaping like a fish out of water. “Really. You don’t have to keep staring at me like that.”

Quentin sighed, smiling wearily. “Alright. I believe you, but if anything I do makes you uncomfortable in any way—“

“Oh, no, you’re fine! I like it…” Peter’s eyes widened, and he hurried to correct himself before Quentin could say anything else. “I mean, it’s not like I _like it_ like it, it’s just, uh, comforting? Yeah! And I mean, I was the one who dragged you into an elevator the first time we met… wait, shit—“

Quentin laughed as Peter’s face turned as red as a tomato. Peter glared at him, but he wouldn’t stop.

_What was that about not being a stuttering mess before?_

“No, no, I’m sorry,” Quentin wheezed, catching his breath. “I just—your face—“ he cut himself off, laughing again. Despite his embarrassment, Peter couldn’t help admiring Quentin’s unreserved smile.

“Sorry,” Quentin said again, managing to calm himself down. “That whole elevator thing wasn’t a problem at all. I liked it, too.”

This time, it was Peter’s turn to look like a fish out of water. Quentin held his gaze, one eyebrow quirked playfully.

“But that was—we—what—“

“Doctor.”

The two men whipped around to look at May, who had apparently come back to the kitchen to put away her now empty glass. 

“What’s the matter, May? I thought you went to get ready for bed,” Quentin asked, kneeling down to better converse with the third-grader.

“Yeah. Exactly.” May looked less than amused. “It’s late. Why is he still here?”

Peter pulled out his phone to check the time. He cringed, pocketing it once again.

“She has a point, it’s nearly eight already,” he said, patting himself down to make sure he still had everything he came with. Seriously though, had he really been here that long? He could have sworn it had only been twenty minutes or so, not two hours!

“I guess you should get going, then,” Quentin said, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll walk you to the door—“ he turned to May, pointing a playfully accusatory finger at her. “—and then _you_ are going to bed, little miss.”

May stuck out her tongue at Quentin as she put her glass on the counter beside Peter. She looked at him and whispered, “don’t get your hopes up.”

Before Peter could reply, Quentin waved him over. As they walked to the door side-by-side, Peter spoke up again.

“Next time we talk, you need to tell me about your beef with Friday, okay?”

Quentin chuckled. “Sure, but it’s nothing too dramatic.”

They stopped in front of the door, just smiling at each other for a few seconds.

“Okay, I’m gonna head out now.”

“Okay. See you around, Pete.”

Peter left the apartment, pulling out his phone as he walked down the hallway. He opened his contacts and pressed “call”, holding the phone up to his ear as he jogged down the stairs. 

“Come on, pick up, pick up, pick up…”

_Click_

_“Hello?”_

Peter stepped out onto the street, feeling the brisk night air cool off his blushing face. Smiling ear-to-ear, he practically shouted:

“MJ, HOLY SHIT, YOU’RE NOT GONNA BELIEVE THIS!”


	11. Getting Owned by a Third-Grader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, trying to think of good transitions:
> 
> My brain, trying to be cinematic: SCENE CHANGE
> 
> Me, sobbing: p-please,,, no more time skips,,,
> 
> My brain: **SCENE CHANGE**

Previously:

_“Okay. See you around, Pete.”_

_Peter stepped out onto the street, feeling the brisk night air cool off his blushing face. Smiling ear-to-ear, he practically shouted:_

_“MJ, HOLY SHIT, YOU’RE NOT GONNA BELIEVE THIS!”_  
***

“What the f—“ Peter could practically see MJ cringing away from the receiver. “First of all: _ouch.”_

Peter laughed apologetically, hopping onto the sidewalk as he passed his phone into his other hand.

“Second of all?”

“Second of all…” MJ paused, clearly not anticipating having to come up with anything else. “Second of all… what’s so important that you couldn’t wait until you got home to tell me?”

Peter smiled, practically skipping down the sidewalk. He twirled around once, making use of the pent up, excited energy that he had been holding back in front of Quentin. Despite the darkened sky, Peter felt as though he were enveloped in warm sunshine. He hadn’t felt this happy in a long, long time.

_“I-I think Quentin was flirting with me!_ I made him blush, and he said he, uh, the elevator, he—“

“You mean when you pretended to make out with him in front of your entire office?”

“Y-Yeah! He said…” Peter rounded a corner, feeling a blush creep up his neck at the memory of Quentin’s confession. “I don’t know if he was just teasing me or something, but he said he _liked it!_ What does this mean?!”

He heard MJ shift around—he assumed she was sitting on the bed—and laugh softly. “That’s great, Peter. Can you do me a favor?”

Peter paused by a crosswalk, waiting for the light to turn green. “Yeah?”

“Let me be the maid of honor at your wedding. I’ll have a _super_ embarrassing speech. It’ll be great.”

“Wh—“

Peter glanced at the light, seeing it turn green. He looked down at his phone as he began forward once more, sighing in fake exasperation as he realized MJ had hung up on him.

For the first time in a while, Peter could safely say that he was entirely content with his life, even if just for a moment.

_Screeeeech_

Peter looked up sharply, his eyes widening at the sight of two headlights headed straight towards him.

_Crack_  
***

“Doctor?”

“Hm?” Quentin stopped tucking May in for a moment so he could give her his full attention.

“Why do you want him to be my nanny so bad? It’s just a waste of time and money at this point. I thought we agreed we didn’t need any more.”

“You know, for a third grader, you sure know a lot about what I should and shouldn’t invest my time and money in.”

May stuck her tongue out, burrowing under her covers. Quentin laughed, sitting on the edge of her bed. The springs creaked under his weight, causing May to giggle at the noise. Quentin’s expression softened, and he reached out to brush some hair out of May’s face.

“You know how busy I am. Someone needs to pick you up from school—“

“I can take the bus.”

Quentin continued as if he hadn’t heard May speak, playfully pinching her face for interrupting him. She puffed out her cheeks in retaliation. 

“Besides, I think you’ll like Peter once you get to know him. He’ll be good for you.”

May raised an eyebrow. “Just for me?”

Quentin didn’t reply. He looked at May for a moment, smiling softly, before pulling the covers over her head. She shrieked in delight, battling to shove them off so she could respond in kind, but Quentin had already stood up by the time she poked her head out.

“Goodnight, May.”

May smiled and settled down. She shifted into a more comfortable position, closing her eyes. Content after seeing her calm down, Quentin made his way to the door.

“‘Love you.”

Quentin’s breath hitched. 

It was the first time he’d heard those words in a long, long time.

He paused at the door, looking over his shoulder. He let out a shaky breath.

“Yeah. I love you, too.”  
***

_In, out._

_In, out._

_In, out._

Peter breathed heavily, his eyes unseeing. Every inch of him was trembling.

“Peter! What are you doing down there?”

With an effort, Peter managed to focus on a figure standing over him.

Wait, when did he even get on the ground?

He squinted, willing his vision to clear.

“Charlie?”

Charlie grinned, revealing a yellow-toothed smile. He wordlessly helped Peter to his feet, steadying the younger man when his legs refused to work.

“What are you doing in the middle of the road so late at night? I thought that was _my_ job! Aghaghahaha…” Charlie wheezed, slapping his thigh. Peter smiled wearily, before checking to make sure he hadn’t broken anything.

_Oh. Oops._

“Oh, no, no, no, no…” Peter dropped to his knees, frantically trying to piece together broken glass and crushed plastic. “My phone…”

“Ouch, that’s a shame. Those things are mighty expensive,” Charlie commented unhelpfully. “The car must’ve run it over. Good thing it didn’t get you too, eh?”

“The car…” Peter murmured, suddenly remembering. “I was crossing the road… a car almost hit me…” he looked down at his hands. Still nothing more than a few scrapes. “He missed, obviously.”

“Right? Still, you’d be surprised, with all the crazy people drivin’ around at night like that,” Charlie huffed. He prodded Peter until they returned to the sidewalk, where (hopefully) no cars would hit them. “Just get on home, then. Wouldn’t want your girlfriend to worry now, would we?”

Peter protested as Charlie gave him another shove down the sidewalk.

“Go on, get! Off my lawn!”

Despite the fact that he had almost been hit by a car not five minutes earlier, Peter laughed. 

“Okay, okay, I’m going!”

He waved Charlie goodbye and began to walk off. He started to turn the corner, when he realized something. Spinning on his heel, he shouted back at Charlie:

“Wh— _MJ’s not my girlfriend!”_  
***

“Are you dating my foster dad?”

Peter nearly missed a step. He whipped his head around, fixing an incredulous stare on May. She met his gaze, continuing to walk beside him as if this was a completely normal conversation to be having with her new nanny.

“No? Then do you _want_ to date my foster dad?”

“I, uh, reserve my right to remain silent?”

Peter’s face flushed. He picked nervously at the bandages on his hands. Well, “bandages” was a bit of a stretch. When he had gotten home the other night, MJ had sat him down and put Disney Princess band-aids over as many of Peter’s scrapes and bruises as she could. It kind of felt like a stiff, Cinderella-faced glove.

They would need to buy more band-aids sometime soon.

Grocery list aside, Peter had to focus on his current job: getting May home. As it was, they were walking to the closest bus stop when May had sprung the question. It looked like she was about to ask another, when they were interrupted.

“May!”

Both May and Peter stopped and turned to see who had called out. A young girl with long brown hair came running towards them. A very pretty woman—who Peter assumed was her mom—followed behind much slower. The girl stopped a few feet away, looking confused.

“What’s wrong, May? You look scary.”

May glanced at Peter before hurrying over to her friend.

“Shh, Morgan! I’m _trying_ to be scary!”

“Why? And where are you going? Aren’t we driving you home again?”

May looked over her shoulder at Peter. She glared, realizing that her features had softened while talking with Morgan. 

“Nope, not today. My _nanny_ is taking me home,” she huffed. It was then that Morgan’s mom caught up with her daughter.

“Nanny? I thought Dr. Beck had given up on nannies,” she mused. “You seem like a nice young man, though.” She stuck out her hand for Peter to take.

“I, uh, thank you, ma’am!” Peter blurted out, shaking the woman’s hand. “I’m Peaker— _Peter..._ Parker. Nice to meet you!”

The woman smiled, only slightly put off by Peter’s nervousness. “Pepper Potts. Take good care of May.”

“I’ll try—I mean, I will! She doesn’t like me that much, though.”

“He wants to date Dr. Beck,” May piped up matter-of-factly.

Peter blushed profusely, stammering excuses and denials, but Pepper only laughed.

“Dating your employer?” She smiled knowingly, eyes twinkling. “Well, good luck. Just don’t let him buy you any enormous stuffed animals. I still don’t know what to do with mine.”

Peter laughed along with Pepper, though he didn’t understand the joke. He just wanted to leave the conversation before May could expose him any more than she already had.

“Well, we should get going. Come on, May, we don’t want to miss the bus. It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Potts!”

May begrudgingly left her friend’s side. “See ya, Morgan.”

“Bye!” Morgan waved as she followed Pepper back down the sidewalk. Peter waited as May watched them go. For a moment, he thought she might run after them and leave him in the dust.

Eventually, May turned on her heel and marched ahead of Peter. Peter hurried after her, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans.

“So, um…” He began, embarrassingly intimidated by this small, angry brunette. “Am I really that transparent?”

May glanced at him for a long moment, probably wondering whether it was best to reply or to let Peter suffer. 

“Yeah. You suck at hiding it.” Peter gulped. “But don’t worry about what Dr. Beck thinks about it. He’s dumb about that stuff.”

“What stuff?”

May stared at Peter again, and, wow, she was really good at making Peter feel as if he had asked the dumbest question in existence.

They finally reached the bus stop, which had a few other people waiting around for the next bus to arrive. May sat on the bench, and Peter stood beside her.

“You’re probably wondering about why people keep saying that Dr. Beck gave up on nannies.”

“Not at the moment, but—“

“It’s because he’s dumb. All of my past nannies quit because they liked Dr. Beck and thought he liked them, too. He’s just nice. I don’t think he plans on dating anyone while he’s looking after me.” As she spoke, May’s face scrunched up. She seemed to be thinking about something. Peter was startled when she suddenly gasped, a look of horror spreading across her features.

“M—“

“It’s my fault, isn’t it?” May gasped, turning to look at Peter with wide eyes. Every bit of animosity had vanished from her face, and Peter finally saw the sweet, unsure third-grader Quentin had spoken of so fondly. “Dr. Beck is holding back because I’m there! Why didn’t I notice sooner? I should’ve known, since there were so many nannies, and he looked so sad when they quit, and—“

“Hey, May, calm down,” Peter interrupted, his voice soft. Seeing May panic was painfully familiar. He wasn’t sure what to say, but he knew that he needed to stop May before she dug herself into a hole of self-loathing.

It was suddenly very clear to Peter why MJ interrupted him so often.

“Listen,” he continued, slowly piecing together his thoughts. “Quentin’s lack of a love life, whether because of his density on the subject or his refusal on your behalf, isn’t your fault. Even if he is holding back like you said, that’s entirely his fault. You didn’t ask for him to do anything. It’s not your fault, May.”

May gave Peter a long look. Her lip trembled, but she stubbornly refused to cry. The bus pulled up, and she broke the eye contact, hopping off the bench. Peter sighed quietly, figuring that was that, but May spoke up again.

“We don’t need you, y’know.”

Peter sucked in a breath. She was right. Of course she was right. Peter knew that. Quentin said it himself: the nanny job was just to get Peter back on his feet while he looked for a new job. It didn’t mean anything. They didn’t actually need Peter’s help.

It still hurt to hear it said out loud, though.

“Yeah,” Peter replied, gently ushering May through the bus’s open doors. He paused on the curb, taking a moment to collect himself. He didn’t want May to see just how much her words affected him. “I know.”

He hopped onto the bus, forcing a smile as May looked at him over her shoulder.

“Hey, how does spaghetti sound for dinner? I promise I won’t microwave the tomato sauce.”

May smiled reluctantly, furrowing her eyebrows together. She looked like she wanted to say something, but shook it off.

“You better not.”


	12. A Couple of Gay Disasters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s 2020!! We’re not even a week in, and I already fear for my life! Now y’all know if this never gets finished it’s because I died in WW3 uwu
> 
> Anyway, on a lighter note, I have some late Christmas gifts for y’all: a 4,000 word chapter rather than a 2,000 word one, and a doodleTM
> 
> Ya boi likes to draw, so here’s the link to a picture I drew of Peter trying the Leg for the first time! I haven’t written that part yet (obviously) but drawing helped me figure out the design and I was like “why not?”
> 
> https://dtl-doodles.tumblr.com/post/189852257289/peter-trying-the-prosthetics-features-for-the

Previously:

_“All of my past nannies quit because they liked Dr. Beck and thought he liked them, too. He’s just nice… we don’t need you, y’know.”_

_“Yeah,” Peter replied, gently ushering May through the bus’s open doors. He paused on the curb, taking a moment to collect himself. He didn’t want May to see just how much her words affected him. “I know.”_  
***

Peter stared at the noodles swirling around the pot of boiling water, allowing himself to zone out as he stirred… and stirred… and stirred… 

He couldn’t stop thinking about what May said: the other nannies quit because they mistook Quentin’s friendliness for attraction. Was that going to happen to him? Was he just going to be “another nanny” if he got his hopes up just a little? If he even dared to dream that Quentin wanted to be more than his friend?

“That’s ridiculous, why would he want that?” Peter muttered to himself, beginning to stir the noodles in the other direction.

But then, what about the last time he talked to Quentin? When Quentin said he enjoyed that moment they had in the elevator? Was that really nothing more than friendly banter?

Peter gnawed on his bottom lip, pulling the wooden spoon out of the water and tapping it on the side of the pot as the alarm May had shown him how to set up went off.

“Oh, shoot. May!” Peter called, opening and closing drawers frantically as the alarm continued to beep obnoxiously. May poked her head into the kitchen at the sound of her name being said. “Um, do you know where your strainer is?”

“Strainer?” May echoed, scrunching her eyebrows together in an expression that told Peter that she was just as confused as he was.

“Okay, okay, feelings later, strainer now,” Peter declared, earning himself a snort of laughter from May. When he looked over at her to confirm that she was, indeed, laughing at him, she had turned away to open another drawer and peek inside.

“The strainer is that basket-looking thing with the handle, right?”

Peter paused, trying to imagine it. “Yeah, sure, okay, let’s go with that,” he replied, nodding his head as he failed to come up with a better description.

_Beep! Beep! Beep!_

Peter turned off the alarm and moved the pot of noodles off the burner. He heard May rummaging around behind him, and decided that he could trust her to find the strainer on her own. As he turned the stove off, May slammed a drawer closed with finality.

“Found it!” Peter whirled around to see May holding a strainer triumphantly above her head while she sat perched on the kitchen counter.

“That’s great! Thanks!” Peter went to take it from May’s hands, but paused. “How did you even get up there?”

“I’m a strong, independent woman,” May replied simply, handing the strainer over. Peter took it reluctantly.

“But there’s no stool or step or—you know what, nevermind.”

Deciding it was best not to dwell on it, Peter focused on straining the pot of noodles over the sink. May leaned towards him from her perch, trying to see through the steam that wafted from the kitchen sink.

“Your hands aren’t shaking,” she pointed out. Peter glanced at her, confused. She raised her eyebrows meaningfully, as if she were waiting for Peter to comprehend something that should have been common sense.

“Um?” Peter shrugged a shoulder, setting the now-empty pot back on the stove.

May sighed, exasperated. “Sometimes, people’s hands shake when they pour water like that.”

“With one hand?”

“Yeah, like in the pots with handles!” May hopped off the counter, landing neatly on the floor. If he hadn’t still been holding the strainer over the sink, Peter would have tried to help her. “Dr. Beck’s hand never shakes, but sometimes Ms. Potts’ does.”

“I think it might be a strength thing,” Peter said, carefully depositing the noodles from the strainer back into the pot (in hindsight, he shouldn’t have put the pot back on the stove, but what’s done is done).

May eyed him with thinly-veiled contempt. “You don’t look very strong.”

“Thanks.”

“I bet if I poured the water into the sink, my hand wouldn’t shake!”

“Because you’re a strong, independent woman?”

“Of course!” May patted her forearm, preening at her nonexistent muscle definition. 

Peter laughed. “Hell yeah you are!” He gasped as soon as he said it, his face flushing as he turned to face May fully, momentarily forgetting the noodles on the stove. “I’m sorry, that was a bad word, please don’t repeat it.”

May cocked her head to the side. “What? Hell?”

“No, no, no, no!” Peter tried to shush her, despite the fact that no one else could hear them. May grinned slowly, and Peter got the feeling that he was about to be in a whole lot of trouble.

“I’m telling Dr. Beck!”

“Don’t you dare!”

May laughed and ran from the kitchen. Peter glanced at the forgotten noodles before sighing and running after her. Unluckily for him, May was smaller and knew the apartment a whole lot better than he did. Seeing as he was wearing nothing but socks on his feet, Peter slipped and skidded around a lot more corners than he would have liked to admit.

“I’m telling!”

“Please don’t— _wah!”_ Peter cried out as he chased May around the table, slipping on the hardwood floor. He caught himself before he could ram his face into the floor, which was a small victory in its own way. “May, wait, don’t!”

May paused at the other end of the table. “Wow, you’re really bad at this.”

“I know, I know, just…” Peter shifted into a more comfortable position, wincing as his knee knocked against the floor. He could tell May noticed when he looked up to see a worried expression on her face. 

“Are you okay?” May’s voice was quiet and unsure. She seemed way too worried over what was probably a very small bruise.

“I’m fine, I probably just hit it one of the… _many_ times I fell,” Peter replied softly. “You know, I sure do fall a lot for someone who’s supposed to be a ballet dancer.”

“Wh— _You’re a ballerina?”_

A small smile tugged at Peter’s lips as he watched May’s expression melt from anxious to something akin to awe. Seeing this as an opportunity to get her mind off of whatever led her to worry so much about such a small bruise, Peter nodded.

“Yes I am. One of the greatest, in fact.” May snorted in disbelief, but she still seemed intrigued. “You don’t believe me? How about this…” Peter clambered to his feet, decidedly ignoring the ache in his leg. “After dinner, how about I show you just how great of a ballerina I am?”

“Only if you teach me!”

“You’ve got a deal!”  
***

Luckily, May seemed to like the spaghetti Peter made. In fact, she even asked for seconds. Peter wasn’t much of a chef, but he felt like he finally understood the gratification that came with cooking for others.

After they had finished eating, Peter went to clean up their dishes, but May stopped him.

“Come on! You can do that later!” She pulled on Peter’s sleeve, trying to drag him towards the sitting area, where there was plenty of room to dance around sans a couch and a tv.

“I don’t know, it’ll suck if the sauce dries on and I have to scrub it off…” 

“That’s your problem! Can’t you do it after Dr. Beck gets back? He’ll make me go to bed and we won’t have time! Pleeeeease?” May tried to tug Peter towards her again, and this time, Peter followed reluctantly.

“Okay, okay…” Peter sighed, silently lamenting the inevitable aching of his arms after having to scrub marinara off of someone else’s plates when he could have very well avoided it. Well, the dancing was his idea in the first place, so he might as well go through with it. “Let’s move these first, so we don’t hit anything.”

Peter pointed at the rug on the floor, and May scooped it up before he could say anything. Together, they pushed the couch against the wall and draped the rug over it. To complete their makeshift dance floor, Peter reached into his pocket for his phone, only to remember that it got obliterated. 

Okay, no music then.

“Um, okay, I’m just now realizing that I don’t know the first thing about teaching people things, but that’s okay. So, uh, before we start, how flexible are you?”

“I can touch my toes!” May excitedly bent over and touched her toes, earning a snort of laughter from Peter. It was a nice change to see her earnestly following along with what Peter was saying rather than glaring at him until he couldn’t remember what he was talking about.

“That’s great! But can you do… this?” Peter sat on the floor, stretching his legs out, and grabbing his foot. May plopped down opposite him, trying to do the same, but couldn’t quite reach. “That’s okay. We can start with more simple stuff! Like, hmm…” Peter stood back up, May following suit. “What if we just… dance?”

“That sounds stupid. I thought you were gonna teach me how to jump and spin and stuff.”

“No, see, that’s the thing!” Peter said, pausing momentarily to try and put his thoughts into words. “Ballet is basically just fancy dancing—I mean, it is dancing, but you just point your toes.” As if to prove his point, he rocked back and pointed the toes on his right foot and glanced hopefully at May. “At least, that’s how I see it. You still have to have rhythm and stuff, but it’s still just dancing, y’know?”

“So, like… this?” May copied Peter, stumbling only a little bit. Seemingly pleased with herself, she took it a step further by doing a twirl on her tiptoes. The landing and execution certainly wasn’t the best, but she looked so happy that Peter couldn’t even think about correcting her.

“Yeah, just like that! And if you practice more and more…” Peter spun around on one foot, smiling as his eyes met with May’s. “You’ll be able to _do_ more and more, until you surpass me and become the greatest ballerina in the world!”

Was Peter enjoying showing off to a third grader? Okay, yeah, a little bit. Was it worth it to see the smile on May’s face? Absolutely.

“How long will it take for me to be a ballerina?”

“Oh, years and years…” Peter replied, chuckling softly as May knitted her eyebrows together. “There are certain milestones you need to hit before you can get to the difficult stuff. If you skip over them, it won’t be safe. Luckily for you, though, you’re—“

“—a strong, independent woman—“

“Mhm! Plus, you’ve got the greatest ballerina in New York teaching you.” Peter stretched his arms above his head. “Now, if you want to become a ballerina quick, I’ve got to train you hard! Until Quentin gets home, no breaks, just dancing. Think you can handle it?”

“Yup!”

“Alright then, I hereby crown you my ballerina protégé,” Peter declared, tapping both of May’s shoulders with the side of his hand as if he were knighting her. “Nothing but ballet for an entire hour! Let’s do this!”  
***

When Quentin got home an hour later, he was greeted with the sight of Peter and May attempting to do the lift from _Dirty Dancing._ Well, it looked more like the beginning of _The Lion King,_ to be honest. The only reason he could tell what it was that they were trying to replicate was because of Peter, who was humming _(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life_ while holding May above his head. Judging by the smiles on both of their faces, Quentin didn’t think they really cared how awful it looked.

“You two look like you’re having fun,” he commented, closing the door behind him. At the sound of his voice, Peter and May seemed to snap out of whatever dancing-trance they had gone under. May tried to wriggle out of Peter’s hold and run towards Quentin. Luckily, Peter was able to lower her to the ground before she slipped away.

“Doctor, Doctor, look what I can do!” May spun around as she ran, nearly crashing into the wall with the force she put into it. Quentin caught her before she could hurt herself. He glanced from May to Peter, who had gone from confident to shy in the mere moments it took for him to notice Quentin.

“I see you’ve been busy.”

“Peter’s gonna teach me how to be a ballerina!”

“Really? I thought I was paying him to be a nanny, not a dance instructor.” Quentin threw a grin towards Peter, who returned it with a hesitant smile. For some reason, Peter was acting more apprehensive than usual—and that’s saying something. “How about you go wash up and get ready for bed, May. You still have school tomorrow.”

The smile on May’s face melted away, and she turned to look at Peter, raising an eyebrow in a “told you so” kind of way.

_Oh, great, they’re already communicating telepathically._

Quentin got the feeling he had just unintentionally brought about the creation of a very formidable power duo. Heaven help whoever found themselves in Peter and May’s path of destruction.

“Go on! I want to talk to Peter for a minute.”

May only hummed knowingly, turning on her heel and hurrying into the bathroom. Quentin watched her go for a moment before turning back towards Peter. He was about to say something, when he realized that Peter had retreated to the couch, and was trying to drag it back to its original place on the floor.

“Here, let me help,” Quentin offered, crossing the room and grabbing the other end of the couch. Together, he and Peter moved it back to where it used to sit—well, close enough, at least. It wasn’t until Peter was putting the rug down that Quentin noticed it. “Um, Peter? What is that?”

Quentin grinned as Peter shot him a quizzical look. Once Quentin gestured to his hand, Peter understood.

“Oh, uh…” Peter dropped the rug to hide his bandaged hand behind his back. He looked down, focusing on smoothing the rug out with his foot. “I fell the other day, and MJ kind of went overboard with the bandaids, and, uh…” He glanced up sheepishly, his face flushing as he saw Quentin biting his lip to hold back his laughter. “What?”

“It’s nothing,” Quentin replied, coughing into his fist to stifle a chuckle that slipped out. “It’s a good look on you, but it’s about time you have to change them out, though, right? Sit down, I’ll get the first aid kit.”

“Oh, you really don’t have to, it’s fine, I’ll just—“

“Peter. I’m literally a doctor. Let me do this.”

“Yeah, but you’ve been doing doctor stuff all day, I’m sure you—“

_”Peter.”_ Peter closed his mouth abruptly. “It’s really no problem, so shut up and sit down.” Peter did. 

As Peter sat down on the couch, Quentin walked over to the bathroom. He rapped his knuckles on the doorway twice, and May, who was brushing her hair, scooted out of the way so he could bend down and grab the first aid kit from under the sink.

“Is Peter okay?” May asked, pausing her brushing to glance guiltily at the slightly dusty white box.

“No worries, we’re just switching out some bandages,” Quentin replied, briefly checking inside the box to make sure he actually had what he needed.

“Oh. I think princesses are a good look on him, though.”

“That’s what I said!” Quentin reached out and ruffled May’s hair, eliciting a noise of indignation from the young girl.

“Now I have to start over!”

“Oh, shoot, sorry, it’s a bad habit!” Quentin laughed as he left, softly closing the door behind him. As he approached the couch, he noticed that Peter was picking at the bandaids on his hand. “Jesus, how many did she put on?”

“The whole box, I think. I might just accept my fate and live the rest of my life as Bandaid Hands the Ballerina.” Quentin snorted as he sat down and set the first aid kit on his lap. He reached out and grabbed Peter’s wrist gently, angling Peter’s hand towards him.

“Here, let me try.”

They sat there like that for a few minutes, working silently to get the sparkly, pink bandages off of Peter’s hand. Funny, Quentin had never really noticed how calloused Peter’s hands were. He should have assumed that Peter did some kind of weightlifting or gymnastics alongside ballet, but it never really registered in his mind.

Now, imagining Peter working out wasn’t hard—he just gave off active vibes—but Quentin soon realized that getting himself to _stop_ imagining it was considerably difficult.

He didn’t mean to, but as soon as the thought formed, it just wouldn’t disappear. Quentin tried, but it was all just—

_Glistening sweat—_

Wow, this particular Cinderella bandaid really didn’t want to come off.

_Lithe limbs—_

Oh, wait, there it went. Quentin added it to the small pile he and Peter had slowly built up.

_Peter, tired, sweaty, but with an exhilarated glint in his eye that made Quentin just want to—_

“So, this MJ girl,” Quentin began, thoroughly confused and very desperate to get his thoughts away from whatever dangerous territory it was about to enter. His voice came out much louder than he intended it to in the otherwise quiet room. “Is she your girlfriend?”

He didn’t know why he asked it, but as soon as it came out, all Quentin could do was hope things didn’t become awkward. God, was he always this much of an internal disaster?

Peter choked. He tore his hand out of Quentin’s hold to cough into his elbow. A few moments later, he had overcome the shock of the question enough to clear his throat and answer as best he could.

“No! We’re just friends! We’re roommates!”

_”Oh my god, they were roommates.”_

“Shut up, man!” Peter croaked, shoving Quentin playfully. “But, um…” He sobered up a little bit, settling his hand back on his lap so he could pick at the bandaids again. “We tried for a bit in high school, but I think we were kind of each other's, like, reverse awakening?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I mean… I’m… we…” Peter looked like he was debating whether or not to say something. “Actually… there’s this…”

“This..?”

“...guy.”  
***

Was Peter an idiot? Oh, yes, that much was certain. Was he about to get fired because his employer would undoubtedly find out that Peter had the hots for him? He was about to find out.

“A guy?”

Peter chanced a glance at Quentin’s face. He didn’t seem disgusted or embarrassed, just thoughtful. Well, his cheeks did seem to have a bit of red to them, but Peter assumed it was just because of the warmth of the apartment. Maybe Peter shouldn’t have worn a sweater.

“Yeah… uh… MJ and I tried to date, and I realized that I mostly like guys, and she realized that she didn’t like _anyone._ Romantically, I mean.”

“Wow, you must be a nightmare to date, then.”

“Am not! Anyway, we’re just friends, and I like someone, so—“

“Tell me about him.” Peter’s head snapped up, his face flushing.

“Y-you want me to—“ Quentin raised his eyebrows in an expression that screamed “why not?”

Peter sighed. 

“Fine, okay, yeah, totally. Um, I guess he’s… tall.” Quentin snorted. Peter shot him a pointed look.

Biting his lip to muffle his laughter, Quentin took Peter’s hand again and worked with him to get the rest of the bandaids off. “Go on, Mr. Parker, I’m listening.”

“I guess he’s… he’s _pushy._ Not in a mean way, though. I know he wouldn’t make me do something I wouldn’t want to do. Um… he’s got this voice that’s… I don’t even know how to describe it. I never actually thought about how much I like it until I mentioned it just now.” Peter flexed his fingers as the last bandaid came off. Ah, it felt nice to be free again.

“How often do you think of him?” Quentin asked, casually rummaging through the first aid kit on his lap as if Peter weren’t practically confessing. “Do you mind if I put on some disinfectant?”

“Wha—Um?” Peter stared at him, confused. Which question was he supposed to answer? Both? “Uh, no, you can go ahead. Um, I think about him just about everyday, I guess? Ow!”

“I know, it stings, I’m sorry. Your whole hand is scraped up, so I’m going to have to use more than just that little bit. Just keep telling me about him. The more you talk, the sooner it will seem like this is over.”

“I don’t know, this is _very_ embarrassing and I don’t think you really understand that. Why don’t you tell me about your crush? I’d like to see you get flustered once in a while.”

“Unfortunately for you, I never get flustered,” Quentin replied, gently smoothing more disinfectant over Peter’s wounds and giving his wrist a reassuring squeeze when he flinched. “Besides, I think listening to you talk about your crush is _very_ interesting. I think I might fall in love with him, too.”

Peter snorted. “How about this: he’s very mysterious, but not in a sexy way.” At that, Quentin laughed outright.

“Yeah? And what else?”

“He laughs a lot. At least, around me. Actually, now that I think about it, it makes me really happy that he thinks I’m funny. Um, we also talk a lot, but we don’t actually _talk,_ you know? I don’t actually know a lot about him.”

“But you still like him?”

Peter considered Quentin for a moment, allowing just a bit of that unabashed love to show in his eyes. “Yeah, I still like him. I like him a lot.”

Quentin held his gaze for a long moment before looking away to find the gauze in the first aid kit.

“I think you and I have a lot more in common than I thought, Peter. I mean, I like men, you like men, it’s practically fate.” As he talked, Quentin continued to rummage through the box. “Good news: I have actual bandages instead of bandaids!” He pulled the roll of gauze out and showed it to Peter, who was hardly listening.

_”Really?_ I mean, uh… really? That’s cool.”

“You sound very passionate about gauze,” Quentin commented, working on wrapping up Peter’s hand even as he smiled meaningfully at the younger man.

“Yeah, yes, absolutely, that’s it,” Peter agreed, nodding absentmindedly.

Quentin liked men.

_Quentin_ liked _men._

Was Peter dreaming? Was this a dream? An illusion, maybe? Quentin said it so casually, it might have been a mistake.

May said Quentin wasn’t really attracted to the other nannies, but maybe…

Maybe..?

“So, uh, the guy I told you about…”

Quentin glanced up from his work. “The mysterious but in an unsexy way guy?”

“Yeah, that one, um…” Peter looked down and bit his lip, unaware of the set of blue eyes that followed the motion. He wondered if he should even bother asking. Sighing through his nose, he looked back up at Quentin, who was patiently waiting for him to speak. “Do you think I have a chance?”

Quentin considered him for a moment, furrowing his eyebrows together. Eventually, he shrugged and grabbed a pair of scissors from the first aid kit.

“I’d give you about a fifty-fifty chance. You’re pretty awkward.”

That response eased some of the tension from Peter’s shoulders.

“Come on, man…”

Quentin chuckled and cut the gauze to tape it off. When he finished bandaging Peter up, he set the tools aside and shifted to face Peter completely.

“Honestly, knowing you, you can wiggle your way into just about anyone’s heart.”

Peter sucked in a breath. 

He was about to do something stupid.

He didn’t know why he said it.

He really wished he _hadn’t_ said it.

But, of course, since Peter’s a self-destructive idiot, he asked:

“Even yours?”

Quentin paused. Peter held his breath. It looked like Quentin was struggling for words.

_He “never gets flustered,” huh?_

Just when Quentin opened his mouth to reply, May reappeared wearing pajamas and braids.

“Doctor, I’m going to bed—oh, you’re still here.” She looked from Peter to Quentin, apparently ignoring the tension between them. “Go home. Dr. Beck already said I can’t have friends overnight, and you don’t get special treatment.”

“He’ll leave in a minute, May,” Quentin assured her, suddenly looking very tired. “Did you brush your teeth?”

May once again looked between the two men, probably trying to figure out what the hell happened while she was in the bathroom, but shrugged it off. She looked at Peter, a smile slowly forming.

Somehow, Peter knew what May was going to say before she even opened her mouth.

“Hell yeah I did!”

_“May!”_


End file.
